


Promises, Promises

by madscientist1313



Series: Supernova [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle, Bucky Barnes AU, Bucky Barnes Feels, Comedy, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mutants, Parent Bucky Barnes, Parent Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 104,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24972982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madscientist1313/pseuds/madscientist1313
Summary: Just as Bucky and his new wife begin to fall headfirst into their new, superhero-free life of domestic bliss in Wakanda, a once-promised villain with plans of destroying half the universe rises to power and intrudes on their much hoped-for happily ever after.“What is it?” Bucky asks, his shoulders pulling even tighter, the suspicious edge to his energy sharpening into a pointed fear that pricks solidly at her senses. “Something bad?” he asks, voice dropping an octave, the dark knowledge in his eyes showing that he already knows the answer.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Supernova [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1128851
Comments: 103
Kudos: 75





	1. The End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Fifth (yikes!) in the Supernova Series. I suggest reading the other parts first to get acquainted with Tessa, though if you want to continue on without, the facts are these... Dr. Tessa Sullivan (now Barnes) is a mutant - with the power to control and manipulate energy - who was raised in Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Through an unfortunate incident years ago, she managed to bring the energy of the Dark Phoenix within, making her more powerful than even she could fathom. Straining to move away from the X-Men and the painful memories of that life, she landed a job working for Tony Stark - doing genetic research - and moved into the role of lead physician for the Avengers. This is where she not only found a new family, but a love as well... former Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes.

_The world feels… still. And quiet. Even with the gentle wind sweeping through the trees, the prattling and laughing of children dancing on the air. Even with the soft music leaking out an open window, ringing in the background, just barely reaching her ears. Even so, it all seems somehow… silent._

_She looks up and takes in the setting. A house by the lake. Trees dripping bright green leaves, fluttering in the cool breeze. Strawberry blonde hair swishes back and forth behind the kitchen window as a call comes from the house. Time for lunch._

_They race up the sprawling porch – the two of them – the pitter-patter of tiny feet breaking through the profound silence. And then… stop. They halt with a shared breath and a gasp as a sudden swell of sounds comes to life around them. Birds chirping and branches bending under the weight of animals that hadn’t been there even a moment ago. Scurries and chitters and squeals echo from every inch of the woods they’re nestled in, creating a cacophony louder than she’s ever heard. Ever, in all her life._

_She spins in a slow, wide arc, gazing up at the sky with wonder, watching in awe as a giant flock of birds takes flight, celebrating in joyous leaps and spins and dives, right above her. The world has never felt this alive. This full. A beaming smile stretches across her face as she takes it all in._

_And then, off in the distance, a sound. A boom. An earth-shaking explosion that causes her heart to jump, and a sudden simple fear – devoid of any suspicions or questions… because her mind is so_ young _, so_ innocent _and_ pure – takes over _. Far, far off in the distance, a billowing pillar of smoke begins to rise. And with it a cry also rises from deep in her chest. For mama and papa. A desperate scream – a_ plea _– for them to come and get her, take her home, keep her safe._

Tessa wakes with a start, bolting up and pitching forward as a long wheeze pulls from her lungs, followed quickly by a sharp gulp of air.

“You okay?” he asks, his palm pressed to her back before she even realizes he’s awake. Though, of course he’s awake. He always wakes when she sputters back to life like this. He’s always there when she’s harshly thrust back into the waking world.

“Yeah,” she breathes out, leaning back into his hand with a sigh. “Yeah. Sorry.”

The sheets tug and pull as Bucky shifts beside her, his fingers delicately tracing along her spine. “Another dream?” he asks, voice muddled with sleep.

She nods, the light of the full moon outside their window bouncing off of her dark and disheveled curls. “Yeah. It’s fine.” She cranes her neck to see him, looks down at his heavy lidded eyes, split with concern, and she smiles – “Go back to sleep.” – before pulling away and scooting towards the edge of the bed.

His hand shoots forward, folding around her ribcage, the other grasping her wrist as he easily tugs her back to him. “No,” he whines, a petulant air to his weary tone. “Stay.” He pulls her down, the only resistance offered by her too-tired body being a swift eyeroll that, if he even manages to catch, is quickly ignored. He folds her to his chest, both arms wrapped tenderly around her, and lays a sleepy kiss to her forehead, his eyes drifting shut as he repeats softly, “Stay.”

000

Despite the brief interruption in sleep – perhaps a bit more than _brief_ for Tessa, as she continued to lay in the dark for an hour or more, merely _thinking_ while her husband snored on beside her – both Bucky and Tessa manage to feel fairly refreshed the next morning, rising early and preparing to head out to tend the herd just as the sound of a car engine cutting echoes from outside their front door.

“It’s T’Challa,” Bucky murmurs softly as he peeks through the curtain of the front window. He’s alone but for the aide driving the Jeep – a young, nervous looking man who continues to sit straight and tall as his king leaps from the vehicle and begins a purposeful stalk through their yard.

Tessa sets down the last washed mug, flipping off the faucet, and leans a hip into the sink as she turns to watch Bucky swing open the door. “Hello,” T’Challa greets, amicable – though always guarded – smile stretching along his face. “May I come in?”

“It’s your… kingdom,” he says by way of a welcome, the flippant response causing Tessa to roll her eyes.

She walks over as he enters, extends a hand in greeting. “How are you, T’Challa?” she asks, giving Bucky a bit of a reprimanding side-eye glare.

“I am well,” he replies, a relaxed grin taking over as he settles his gaze on her. “And you, Dr. Barnes? I trust that you are taking good care of yourself?”

Bucky lets out a thick scoff from behind. “Don’t think she even knows what that means.”

“Hilarious,” she deadpans.

He barely acknowledges her interjection, training a wary stare on the man before him instead. “Not to be rude,” he declares, the gruff tone sounding in stark opposition to his words. “But, what are you doing here?”

Tessa folds her arms tightly over her chest and rolls her eyes dramatically. “Normally when someone comes to visit, you offer them a drink, not disdain.” She looks at T’Challa, notes the amused quirk of his lips. “He’s a little rusty on welcoming guests.”

“He’s not a guest,” Bucky argues, bouncing his gaze up to meet hers for just a fraction of a moment before dropping it back to the king. “He’s not just… stopping by to say hi.”

T’Challa nods slowly. “He is right,” he confirms before flashing a gracious smile Tessa’s way. “Though I do appreciate your defense of good manners.”

“What is it?” Bucky asks, his shoulders pulling even tighter, the suspicious edge to his energy sharpening into a pointed fear that pricks solidly at Tessa’s senses. “Something bad?” he asks, voice dropping an octave, the dark knowledge in his eyes showing that he already knows the answer.

He nods simply – shortly – and waves a hand towards the Jeep outside. “We can talk on the way.”

000

“So aliens came back to Earth and they’re looking for the fancy jewel inside Vision’s head,” Bucky recounts, tossing his chin in the direction of the beat-to-hell android being seen to in the next room. “And more are coming?”

Steve nods, swift and purposeful, as he takes a step forward, pulling ahead of the small group of regathered Avengers currently assembling in the hall of the Wakandan palace. “And they won’t stop until they get it.”

He rubs his heavily stubbled chin in thought, thumb and forefinger pinching his face as his brain works to make sense of the rapid onslaught of information that has just been thrown at them. “And Stark got… beamed up?”

Another nod, albeit more hesitant than the first.

Bucky’s brows rise appreciatively. “Well, there’s that piece of good news at least.”

Steve stifles a scoff. “Look, I know this all seems… sudden. And crazy. But,” he tosses a quick glance over to a stolid Natasha at his right, an agitated Bruce at his left. “Thanos _is_ coming. And he’s not going to stop until he gets that stone.”

“Thanos?” Tessa asks, head cocked curiously. Her nose wrinkles in both confusion and something akin to annoyance. “What the hell kind of name is that anyway?”

“Not really important here, Tess,” he huffs out as he runs an exhausted hand down the length of his face. “The point is that – ”

“He’s big and scary and… undefeatable,” Bruce interjects from his side. He levels Tessa with a terror-stricken glare, eyes wide and wild. “I met him. I _tried_ to fight him. The Hulk…” He shakes his head. “If Heimdall hadn’t have sent me back here, I’d be dead. I know that. Nothing can kill the Hulk… but _he_ could.”

Her brows scrunch in confusion, face twisting in curiosity even as the others around them slip into a frightened, solemn silence. “Wait… Heimdall sent you _back_? You were… in space?”

He nods, only just now realizing that they really hadn’t caught up much over the past year or so, and he hadn’t actually recounted this particular part of the story for them, everything happening in such a rush. “Yeah. For a bit.”

Her eyes blow wide as saucers. “And you met Heimdall?”

He shrugs. “Sort of.”

“And you saw him summon the Bifrost?” Another nod. “And you… rode it… here? Back to Earth? From… space?”

A low groan pulls from Steve’s chest – alongside a choked chortle from Rhodes as both he and Sam work to hide their amusement behind him. “Also,” the blond breathes out with an irritated sigh. “Not really the point.”

She turns back to Bruce with a frown. “Why does everyone get to go to space but me?”

“Help us end this alien bastard and maybe we can send you up for a victory lap,” Natasha suggests with a crooked smirk.

She returns the expression with a wide, wily smile of her own. “If that’s your idea of a bribe, suggesting space travel as a break from slinging manure and milking goats… you officially have my attention.”

“Can we be serious for just _one_ minute here?” Steve breaks in, the stern _Captain_ voice taking over as he drops his hands to his hips and straightens to his full height. He lets out a soft breath, the tightness between his brows settling just the slightest bit. “Look. We don’t really know what to expect. Not exactly…”

“But whatever it is,” Bruce steps in. “It’ll probably make the Battle of New York look like a Disney theme park ride.”

“Weird analogy,” Tessa mutters, the small grin falling from her face, features pulling into a contemplative mask. “You guys remember when everyone thought that people like _me_ were the scariest things out there? And we all needed to be… locked up or killed?”

“Yeah,” Sam says with a nod. “And now the most powerful mutants on Earth are in the wind because of it. Damn. We could really use the X-Men right about now too.”

“Well, we’ve got one of them, at least,” Steve declares, brows raised high. “Maybe the most important one.”

“ _Ahem_ ,” sounds abruptly from just outside the tightly clustered group, T’Challa now standing beside the circle of friends. “I do not to wish to interrupt,” he says, far more diplomatically that needed… considering that these people just brought an intergalactic war to his country. All eyes turn on him and he thanks everyone for their attention with a swift and fleeting smile. “If I may, Captain,” he says to Steve – utterly ignoring his earlier pleas to, _Just call me Steve_ – “The Wakandan forces are gathered.”

“That was quick,” Rhodey mutters under his breath.

The corner of T’Challa’s mouth quirks at the comment, but he doesn’t remove his gaze from the unspoken leader of the group. “If any of your men – and women – need to prepare…”

“Yeah,” he breathes out casually before clenching his muscles – and his will – and moving into commander mode. He spins to face Rhodes and Sam. “You two go suit up and take flight, get a lay of the land.” Then, turning to Bruce and raising a questioning brow, he asks, “You ready to try out the HulkBuster?”

“As I’ll ever be, I guess,” he replies sullenly before looking back to Tessa and giving her a quick nod, then heading off behind the two flight-trained members of their team.

“Wanda needs to stay with Vision,” Steve goes on, as though anyone was confused about that part of the mission plan. “But you two,” he says, angling his head towards Bucky and Tessa, “need to dig out your suits.”

Bucky’s face pulls tight, his jaw clenching and ticking to the side. “No,” seeps out of him in a long, fluid – _dangerous_ – breath. “Not her.”

Steve pulls back in surprise, all stoicism lost as his shoulders drop, stance fading from one of control to confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”

T’Challa backs away from the group slowly, a somewhat amused – seemingly _knowing_ – look on his face. “I will leave you to it,” he states as he takes off and heads back to his troops, far away from the tense showdown building in the hall.

Bucky stands bullishly across from Steve, his fists slowly clenching and releasing at his sides. “She can stay up here and help Shuri and Wanda. Or she can go home and hide. But she’s not stepping foot into battle.”

“Buck,” he huffs out dramatically. “Did you not hear what we just said?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “You said that you don’t know what to expect, but it’ll be bad. Worse than New York. And I don’t want her out there in that.”

Tessa reaches up to lay an open palm on Bucky’s shoulder, aiming for calming when she says simply, “Babe,” but somehow molding the single word into an utterance of condescension, her face holding the same general attitude.

He swivels towards her, “Don’t look at me like that,” seething through tightly gritted teeth.

She cocks her head, narrowing her eyes dully. “James,” she intones, a warning note to her voice.

He holds up a single pointed finger, brows rising and face setting in that way it used to, back in the day, when he was about to issue an impatient command to an unruly recruit. Steve recognizes it immediately, his own brows rising and twisting as he watches with interest, unconsciously taking a single – rather intrusive – step towards the couple when he hears Bucky breathe out the staunch order, “No.”

Tessa’s hands fall to her hips, her head shaking in a slow arc, lips pinching tight before opening just enough for her to utter, “You can’t say that to me. Not now. Not about this.”

“Not now?” he asks, a bitter edge to his tone as he moves closer to his wife, almost towers over her. “Yes, _now_. Are you nuts?”

“Are _you_?” Natasha interjects blithely. Bucky’s head swivels to face her, his blue eyes dark and dangerous. “We’re talking about universal destruction here, Barnes. The end of the world,” she goes on, not intimidated by his anger nor hulking presence in the least. “We need everyone we can get. And _she_ ,” the newly platinum blonde ticks her head along with a pointed thumb in Tessa’s direction. “Is more powerful than the rest of us combined. Or have you settled so deep into your goat farming fantasy life that you forgot that?”

Tessa drops a deep sigh, her eyes blinking shut for a brief moment as she swivels to put herself in between her friend and her positively fuming husband. “Natasha,” she tries, never quite managing to break the heated stare between the two former Soviet assassins. “He’s just… worried,” she states. “Freaked out.”

“We _all_ are,” she replies sharply.

Steve steps up then, dropping an open palm to Nat’s shoulder and tugging her back. He looks to Bucky, eyes soft and imploring. “That’s right,” he says, echoing her sentiment while keeping his gaze completely trained on his seemingly incensed friend. “We’re all worried. And I know… I _know_ that the last time Tess used her powers it…”

“Almost killed her,” the brooding super soldier supplies bitterly.

Steve nods, his eyes ticking away for a brief moment, blinking back his own memories of that day up in Canada, seeing his friend’s face and flesh split into wide burning gashes, her eyes red rimmed and oddly hollow – and all the days that followed, when she lingered in a coma as Shuri tried desperately to reverse what they all feared was irreparable damage. “We need her, Buck. Nat’s right, she’s the most powerful of all of us. And what we’re about to face…” He shakes his head languidly, bright blue eyes shining with an edge of desperation as he returns his gaze to Bucky. “Remember when Thor said that something was coming? And that whatever it was, it was _bad_ … and that it could destroy the universe?”

He issues out a swift snort. “You don’t really think that’s what’s happening here,” he states, no question to his voice.

Steve leans in, his tone dropping an octave as he stays, “That’s _exactly_ what I think is happening here.” He jerks his chin in Tessa’s direction, still not breaking eye contact with the unwavering soldier in front of him. “He said that her power was enough to protect us from that. The Phoenix might be the only thing – ”

“No,” he barks out, lips curling into a snarl. “I said, _no_.”

Steve pulls back, stunned expression rolling over his face. “What’s with you, man? I get that you’re nervous, but…” His head swivels between Bucky and Tessa – one looking positively livid, the other oddly calm as she absently gnaws at her bottom lip. “You know she can take care of herself.”

“You’re damn right she can,” Natasha interjects from behind, her arms folded tightly over her chest, face a mask of righteous indignation.

“First of all,” Bucky spits out before rocking back on his heels, “I don’t know that. She’s fucking terrible at taking care of herself.” His eyes tick over to Tessa, expecting to see hostility flash boldly across her face. When he’s met with little more than an annoyed smirk, a soft sigh escapes him, his tone cooling as he states simply, “It’s not about her being able to take care of herself. It’s not that.”

Steve’s face pinches in confusion, his own agitation rising even as Bucky’s begins to wane. “What then? You think she’ll wind up like… like she was after killing Lobe… or Sublime, or whoever the hell he was? Because Shuri removed the electrodes from her brain, right? And Wanda said she’s in control of her powers.”

Tessa shuffles uneasily in place, digging her toe into the tile floor as she mutters, “Not really a fan of people talking about me like I’m not here.”

“We need her,” the blond super soldier issues out again, ignoring her plight entirely. But Bucky’s stalwart demeanor doesn’t change, his face holding stony and defiant. Steve lets out a loud huff. “What?!” he nearly screams in his friend’s face. “What is it then? Why are you being so… so…”

“She’s pregnant,” he blurts out, even-toned voice spilling from between still clenched teeth. His eyes arc over to his wife, linger there just long enough to see her face fall – though whether it’s from relief or disappointment, he can’t quite tell – before moving back to the stunned man before him.

Steve’s brows slowly unfurl, his face softening, jaw going slack, as he takes in his friend’s words. From behind, he hears Natasha’s voice – “Are you serious?” – vague and distant. And he spins around to look at her.

“When were you going to say something?” she asks, advancing on Tessa. Her face is awash with something akin to shock, but her eyes also shine and crinkle merrily at the edges as she goes on. “When? When did this happen? Or… when are you due? And _when_ the hell were you going to tell us?”

“Uh,” Tessa sputters for a moment, her gaze shifting across all three sets of eyes now glued to her. “Well, I mean… we wanted to tell you in person. So, I guess… the next time you came to visit?”

A look of abject horror crosses Nat’s face. “What if we didn’t make it back for… months? What, were you just gonna greet us at the door with a _baby_?!”

A thoughtful frown pulls at her lips, brows furrowing as she shrugs. “Maybe?”

Bucky lets out a scoff and sidles up next to her, reaching down with his vibranium hand and slowly twining his fingers with hers. “We would’ve told you before she was born,” he says with a rather sardonic twang.

“She?” Steve chokes out, his mouth still falling agape in surprise as he pivots to face the couple before him. He looks over at Bucky, feels a wide smile begin to split his face as he watches his friend – his _best damn friend_ – shyly duck his head and grin.

“Yeah,” he mutters simply before looking back up and locking onto Steve’s gaze. The corners of his eyes crinkle, pure joy spilling from the bright blue depths. The talk of fighting – of intergalactic war and universal destruction – all fade away for this one perfect moment. He can’t share this with his mother… nor his sister or father or any other family. The only blood he has now – that he’s aware of, anyway – rests inches away from his hand, nestled deep in the warm cocoon of his wife’s body. But damn if this man standing before him isn’t just as much a _brother_ as anyone could ever be. “Yeah,” he says again, nodding slowly. “We’re gonna have a baby girl.”

Steve pulls in a quick breath, lets it out in a soft, sweet laugh amid an airy, blissful, “Congratulations,” and leans slowly forward to wrap his friend in a bone-crushing embrace. From the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha launch herself at Tessa, the fervent joy seeping from the typically impassive, collected woman causing another chuckle to burble up from his chest. “You’re gonna be a dad, Buck,” he breathes out, giving one more firm squeeze. He unfurls his arms and slams his palm to Bucky’s shoulder in a solid pat. “You’re gonna have a _daughter_.”

The look on Bucky’s face is one he’s certain he’s never seen before. Lost somewhere between elated and utterly placid… as though, as excited as he surely is, hearing those words – _you’re gonna be a dad. You’re gonna have a daughter_ – merely echoes a truth he’s somehow known all along.

“And you’re going to name her Natasha, right?” Nat asks, pulling away and quickly swiping at tears she only hopes no one notices.

Bucky glares at her from the corner of his eye. “No way in hell.”

“Oh, come on,” she gripes. “What if I kick ass in this… alien battle?” Her still glassy eyes shift excitedly back and forth between Bucky and Tessa. “I could earn it.”

He shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

“What if I _die_?” she asks, raising a questioning brow.

He shrugs. “Give it a shot and we’ll see what happens.”

Tessa slaps him upside the head, eliciting a sharp wince, but absolutely no apology. She turns to Natasha. “We’re not naming her after anybody. We already decided that.”

Bucky rubs the back of his head gingerly, muttering under his breath, “Didn’t _decide_ anything.”

She rolls her eyes at her husband. “I decided. And as long as I have to give birth, I get the final say.”

Natasha shrugs – “Seems fair.” – and narrows her eyes as she stares assessingly at her friend, gaze traveling slowly over the length of her body. “Your boobs look a little bigger…”

“Thank you,” Tessa says with a genuine lilt and a pleased grin.

“But otherwise, I don’t see it…” Her eyes veer down to Tessa’s middle, to her still predominantly flat stomach, nothing but the slightest swell – _food baby_ , as she had joked just this morning when getting dressed – visible. “How far along are you?

“Twelve weeks,” Bucky answers for her as he leans in and drapes his metal arm around her, fingers brushing delicately just along the side of her abdomen. “But she went and started _testing_ almost right away,” he goes on, now rolling his own eyes. “ _Geneticists_.”

“Testing?” Steve asks, a hint of realization peppering the word. “For the serum?”

Tessa shrugs. “Can’t really test for the serum itself,” she tells him. “And so far, there aren’t really any markers – nothing concrete, anyway – that makes me think she inherited it. At least not like you’re probably thinking.” She casually snuggles a bit deeper into Bucky’s side as she goes on. “I don’t know if she’ll have any enhancements like you two do. _But_ the serum did cause your cells to replicate in a certain manner… it altered your genetic code. So…” Another shrug. “She’ll probably have… something from her father.” She shifts her face to beam up at the man by her side. “Hopefully his eyes if nothing else.”

“Ugh,” Natasha moans, deep and guttural. “Sure, he’s got nice eyes. Whatever. Between the two of you, I’d take a little Tessa over a tiny Winter Soldier any day.”

Bucky shoots her a harsh glare, reminding her – as though she doesn’t already know – just how much he _hates_ that name. And hearing it in reference to his daughter makes him not only angry, but actually a bit sick to his stomach. Tessa feels the slithering fear and doubt – and regret – that rises up in him any time the words _Winter Soldier_ are uttered. And she reaches up to softly trail her hand down his now taut and rigid back. “I mostly wanted to know about the X-gene,” she tells their friends, carrying on their conversation and giving Bucky a moment to relax.

“And?” Steve asks.

“And… yeah. She’s got it.”

Natasha nods appreciatively. “So not only are you giving our family a little girl – who’s _middle_ name is Natasha – but you also made her into a possibly enhanced mutant. Nice work.”

“Well, I haven’t actually finished _making_ her yet,” she intones. “But… thanks.”

“Alright,” Steve says suddenly, a look of deep concern rolling over his features. “I get it now.” He turns a rather sober stare on Bucky. “I get why you don’t want her fighting.”

“ _But_ I have to,” Tessa announces, dropping her hand to her husband’s hip and giving his once again terribly tense body a bit of a jostle. “And I _can_.”

Steve turns the worried stare on her. “Are you sure. I mean…” He shakes his head, expression morphing into one of vulnerable bewilderment.

He too thinks she has to fight. They came here – to Wakanda – to help Vision, sure. And the plan all along was to enlist the help of T’Challa and Bucky and whatever troops they could muster. But the moment they set course for this mystical land, he _knew_ that they were coming for Tessa more than anyone. Because, for well over a year now – ever since Thor blazed into the compound looking for the power of the Phoenix only to vanish days later without a word – he’d been replaying what the alien god had said over and over and over again in his head.

 _We_ need _this power. And someone to wield it. All of us need it… the entire universe._

“Steve,” she says, the gentle yet earnest tone pulling him from the sudden onslaught inside his head. “I can do this.” She turns to glance at her husband’s once again stony face, the muscles of his jaw ticking nervously beneath his flesh. “I won’t put the baby at risk.”

“Going out onto a battlefield puts her at risk,” Bucky seethes, his tone settling just a bit when he gazes down at her to utter, “It puts _you_ at risk.”

Her lips pinch tightly together and she nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Maybe so. Maybe I should say I won’t put us at any _undue_ risk. But, Jamie, I can’t let you go out there…” Her eyes shift to Steve, to Natasha. Then she glances back over their shoulders and through the glass leading to the lab where Vision and Wanda sit curled tightly round one another. “I can’t let _all of you_ go out there without my help. Not when we all know what I’m capable of. It might be shitty timing, but… there’s really no way that any of us are going to be able to sit this one out.”

Bucky shakes his head, forlorn expression taking over, burning at the edges of his – just moments ago, blessedly joyous – face. “I don’t want you to do it,” he says, voice low and small and just for her.

She nods. “I know. But you don’t get to decide.”


	2. Stay Positive

_Wakanda. A few months earlier…_

“So,” she starts, peculiar frown pulling at her face as she stares down at the little white stick on the countertop. “Now it just has to… sit.”

He gives a stiff nod from over her shoulder, wraps his arms around her middle, and catches a glimpse of her scowl in the mirror. “You supposed to watch it while we wait?” he asks, crooked smile hidden just behind her crown as he presses soft kisses into her hair.

Tessa lets out a huff – more a harrumph, really – and spins in his hold, loosely draping her own arms around his neck. “It’s hard to look away,” she breathes out, dropping her head to his shoulder with a sigh. “Clearly you’ve never had a pregnancy scare before.”

His brows twist together, small smirk still riding on his lips. “You have?”

She looks up at him, her emerald eyes showing a storm of brewing thoughts and emotions. “Yeah, sure. Once. Or, well… twice.” She leans back, unwinding her arms and staring at him with an utterly unreadable expression. The frown is gone, but there’s no real light to her eyes. No merriment nor excitement – both of which he feels bubbling steadily in his own gut. Just… concern. He watches her intently for a beat of a moment before she waves a dismissive hand through the air. “Obviously, none of them ever… you know…” Another wistful sigh and her gaze once again ticks off towards nothing, staring into the ether just as she’d been doing all morning. He reaches up and lightly traces his flesh thumb over her jawline, the slight tickle enough to bring her attention back to him. “This could be different,” she acknowledges with a nod. “ _Super_ sperm and all.”

“Should we really call this a pregnancy _scare_?” he asks, tone light, almost teasing. “We did kind of plan it.” He drops both hands to her hips and easily hoists her up onto the bathroom counter, peering every so often at the test to her right – just out of the corner of his eye, as though she actually might not notice.

Tessa’s eyes roll and a long, low groan pulls from her chest, the sound just over-the-top pathetic enough to force Bucky to stifle a laugh. “I don’t know that we _planned_ it,” she mutters, expertly avoiding eye contact, her gaze instead dropping to the tightly wound fingers resting in her lap. “See if I gift anyone with unprotected sex for their birthday ever again.”

The building chuckle almost chokes out of him, his head ducking, lips pressing a lingering kiss to her clavicle in a poor attempt at hiding his amusement. “ _I_ enjoyed it,” he murmurs into her, tone light and teasing until he feels her stiffen in his hold. He pulls up to face her, “Hey,” issuing out as he boosts her chin with his index finger, brings her eyes up to meet his. “We talked about this,” he breathes out, a hint of confusion peppering his words, furrowing his brow. “You said you wanted it too.”

She shrugs, corners of her lips falling into a subtle frown yet again. “I guess I didn’t think it’d happen so fast.” She drops his rather intense gaze, her own shooting around the small bathroom, pinging about nervously. “I mean… first try?”

“Wasn’t exactly just _one_ try,” he says with a haughty cock of his brow and a playful cadence.

“Ha, ha,” she deadpans dully, still avoiding his eyes.

He reaches out and pinches her chin between his thumb and forefinger, gently pulls her face – and focus – to him once again. When she finally looks his way, those brilliant blue eyes lock onto hers and his voice drops a full octave as asks simply, “You want to tell me what’s going on?” She merely shrugs. He nods slowly – methodically – and asks, despite already knowing the answer, “Are you scared?”

Finally, a reaction beyond sullen scowling spills out of her as she throws her head dramatically back, long, dark hair cascading towards the sink. A frustrated moan stutters out of her. Her feet kick absently – anxiously – around his legs, the childlike antics brining a sudden, wide smile to his face. “ _Of course_ , I’m scared,” she effuses, pulling herself upright before him. He drops both hands back to her hips, grips them a little tighter than before, and lets his thumbs dance along the flesh just above the seam of her underwear.

She wiggles in his grasp, releasing a small moan of impatience in lieu of an order to stop. And the stroking ceases. “What are you scared of, baby?” he asks, sweet smile never faltering.

The green in her eyes lightens just a bit, those clouds of concern beginning to lift as she tugs at that same eager, excited energy that’s been buzzing around him all morning… ever since she dropped the boxed pregnancy test onto the kitchen counter in front of him and sulkily claimed to be too nervous to pee. But still… the tightly wound bundle of nerves inside her own belly – and _shit_ , could it be sitting right next to some _other_ bundle in there? – causes her brows to furrow yet again. She drops her head to his shoulder and lets out another overdone shrug before curling tightly around him and resting once more in the crook of his neck.

“You know I’m here, right?” he mutters into her hair, raising those new, brilliant black vibranium fingers up, brushing beneath her T-shirt to trace along her spine in a cool, soothing trail. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

A thick snort of incredulous laughter spills out between them. And her head rockets up, eyes shining with disbelief as she nearly shouts, “You’re not pregnant!”

He can’t help the surprised laugh that rumbles out of him as he takes in her wide eyes and gaping mouth. “No. That’s true.”

“I mean, what am I scared of?” she questions with a jittery flourish. “Aside from the obvious?” Her back straightens, shoulders pulling taut. “I’ll be gestating a mutant super soldier!” she squeaks out, eyes wide as saucers as she stares at the man before her. “Would that not _freak you the fuck out_?”

“If I did it? Yeah,” he states with a stoic nod, almost choking on another rising chortle. “That would definitely freak me out.”

His attempt at humor is lost on her, and he can plainly see that. Her eyes almost seem to glaze over as she retreats into her own spiraling thoughts, jaw bobbing slightly as _all the words_ fight to spill out of her at once. “What if it’s super strong and it tries to punch its way out of me? Or… or… what if it _grows_ … I mean, what if it gets _huge_? And then it expects me to _birth_ it? Through my _vagina_. And, okay, let’s be serious for a minute.” She leans back and raises a single pointed finger as though beginning a truly vital argument. “I only have one kidney. This would already be a high-risk pregnancy. Add into that a fetus with your metabolism and… I’ll be bled dry!”

Truth be told, all of these things – well, the last thing at least – concern him as well. He’s been ruminating on it, second guessing this crazy plan for _months_ , ever since she first agreed to give it a shot. And it’s not just the worry over what this might do to _her_ , which has been enough to create a shit ton of sleepless of nights as is. It’s also just, well… who are they to choose this _normal_ life? A super-powered mutant on the run from a mass-murder rap… a brainwashed former assassin with more blood on his hands than any man he’d ever met… what right did these people have to raise a child, to have a family? And even if they do have the _right_ , is it a good idea?

Doubt has been thoroughly twisting his guts since the thought of having a family – having a family with _Tessa_ – first entered his mind as a real and tangible possibility. But doubt is something that’s plagued him for too, too long. And he’s damn tired of it. And he’s damn tired of it tormenting his wife as well. He may not be able to push aside his own qualms – not entirely, anyway – but the absolute _last thing_ he wants right now is for those doubts and worries that are beating around inside his own head to in any way filter into hers. Especially while she’s spinning out so tempestuously in front of him.

So he lets out a long, airy sigh, “Baby,” spilling easily from his lips in a soothing tone. But instead of calming her at all, the simple word gets immediately trampled by her continued tirade.

She shakes her head listlessly, wide, frantic eyes seeming to almost look _through_ him. “And if I do survive the pregnancy… birth? James, I don’t know that I want to give birth.”

He stifles the discomfort that thrums through him at hearing, _if I survive_ and lets out another long breath. Then he raises a brow, teasing glint burning in those deep ocean eyes. “Might be a little late for that, sweetheart.”

“I’m serious. It’s… it’s…” She throws her hands dramatically up into the air, punctuating the temporary loss for words. Her cheeks redden, breathing hiking up in pace. He can actually hear her pulse ratchet up inside of her. “I barely even remember anything from my OB rotation!”

His metal hand stills high on her back, warm flesh palm moving up from her hip to the very center of her chest. It’s an often practiced routine – when she gets too worked up – a wordless reminder that she needs to just _breathe_. “I don’t think anyone expects you to be the doctor on the day, doll,” he jokes as he measures out exaggerated breaths in a steady rhythm for her to follow.

She takes a moment to calm – brief though it may be – and gazes up at him with an almost pleading stare. “You know I’m a shitty patient.”

He nods simply. “I do know that.”

Her face begins to crack, anxiety getting the better of her. “I don’t want to have morning sickness. I’m terrible about being sick. And labor _hurts_ … and I hate being in pain.”

Another steady nod, slightly bitten back smile. “Most people do.”

“And… and… the _aftermath_ , James…” She shakes her head slowly back and forth, eyes blinking tightly shut.

“You mean… a baby?” he tries, keeping his tone light.

She pulls in an unsteady breath. “I mean… the tearing and ripping and swelling and… prolonged bleeding.” She looks up at him, gaze filled with apprehension. “The _healing._ I might be laid up for awhile… you know I don’t do well being forced off my feet, forced to _take it easy._ And…Jamie… babe, I might never be able to laugh again without peeing a little. Ever. Or… or jump on a trampoline.”

The laughter he’d been fighting flies swiftly out of him, taking off in a quick bark of amusement that only seems to set her off more.

“I don’t want to get fat,” she whines next, her hands gripping his forearms as he drops his touch back to her hips. She gives him a rather harsh squeeze, and a firm shake to drive home her point. “I don’t want to have stretch marks or… overly sensitive nipples that won’t even _belong_ to me for… for… months, a year! I don’t want to have to pee every five seconds, and stop working and… oh, God, what if I’m put on bed rest?! I couldn’t deal with that. _You_ couldn’t deal with that! And I don’t want to have to push a super baby out of me. And once it’s out, what then? I don’t know how to be a mom to a _normal_ kid, let alone a… a super mutant! Babe, if we don’t raise him right, he could become a super _villain_ ,” she finishes, voice low and conspiratorial, eyes wide and terrified.

He gives a short nod, mirthful beam drooping to a mere closed-lip grin as he drops his forehead down to hers, tightens his grip around her hips and tugs her just the slightest bit closer to his warm body. His gaze nervously ticks to the side to check on the test, and from the corner of his eye, he can see the plus sign – bold and thick and clear – shining like a beacon on the empty white background. His eyes blink shut and he swiftly licks his lips, stilling for a long, tentative moment before diving in to kiss his still-flustered wife, working to keep any more fears and naysays from spilling out of her.

She’s silent when he pulls away – temporarily stunned and sated – though he knows her well enough to know that she’s far from done spiraling. Hell, she’d go on forever and ever if he let her. But he won’t let her. Not now. Not when the terrifying – _glorious_ – truth is sitting just to her right. And already blossoming between them.

His lips pull into a lazy grin, eyes crinkling around the edges with absolute joy as he says, breath of a voice barely even a whisper, “It’s positive.”

Her mouth – which only just opened again to let out more fears and qualms and worries – slams swiftly shut, teeth clanking loudly together. Her eyes – not that Bucky thought it’d be possible – widen even further as she looks up at him for clarification. For confirmation. For guidance.

He quirks a brow and gives a nod, eyes never leaving hers. And he waits.

Slowly, her face begins to relax, lips parting just a bit as she utters a soft, “Oh,” the single syllable teeming with realization.

“You okay?” he asks, once again raising his vibranium hand to her cheek and tracing a thumb along her jaw before reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

She nods, breath catching in her chest as she tries to speak. She takes another moment to find her words, pressing her lips tightly together as her eyes dart once more around the room before slowly settling on him. “Mm-hmm,” is all she can muster, the assent slipping from between a tight-lipped smile that gradually – hesitantly – grows and grows. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, causing the bright green of her irises to shine. Another nod, and the tears begins to fall, leaving salty tracks down her brightly blushing cheeks. A thick, wet laugh pulls from somewhere deep inside as she stares up at him and locks onto his just-as-glassy gaze.

“Yeah,” he mutters, answering for her, validating for himself. “Yeah,” again, before dropping his lips once more to hers and kissing her until they’re both dizzy and spent and giddy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan for this entire story is to jump back and forth in time. So while we're starting at well... the seeming end of the world, every other chapter (or nearly that) will be a snippet from Bucky and Tessa's life _before_. 
> 
> Anyway, as always, I'd love to hear what you think. And thanks to all for reading!


	3. Alien Energy

_Wakanda. Day of battle._

“You seem awfully… excited about all of this,” Bucky mutters, a suspicious note to his voice as he watches Tessa hop awkwardly on one foot before tripping and almost taking a header into the corner of the bed as she hurriedly tugs the skintight suit up her legs.

She quickly rights herself and pulls the suit all the way up her torso, curling a lip in disgust at the sluicing sound it makes as the material suctions to her body. “What?” she asks absently, not really paying attention to the already decked out _soldier_ standing casually in the corner. She slides her arms into the suit, pulls and zips and straps, and then turns to him with a mile-wide beam. “Always fits!” she declares brightly, amazed – yet again – at the engineering of the seemingly magical tactical suit. She spins to look in the mirror, turns in profile and just barely catches her husband’s smirk as he drops down to the edge of the bed behind her.

“I said you seem pretty excited. You know, for the end of the world,” he snipes, the smallest grin tugging at his lips as he watches her check herself out.

“You can’t even tell, right?” she asks, brow furrowing as her eyes linger around her reflection’s midsection, the thick, tight material of her black tac suit laying against a seemingly utterly flat stomach. Her gaze bounces up to meet his in the mirror. “But my boobs look pretty fantastic, huh?” she encourages amid a sly, mirthful wink.

He issues out a soft, breathy laugh and nods. “Yeah, baby. They look pretty great.”

She spins around and sidles up in front of him, bumping her knees into his. “Wanna try to take it off? I can time you.”

Without even thinking to – his body acting of its own accord when her heat infiltrates his space like this, her scent permeating the air around him – he brings his hands up to her hips, fingers casually stretching back to knead into the top of her fleshy ass. “Fuck,” he breathes out, tone almost wistful. “I am _loving_ these hormones.”

Her head falls back as she laughs, the thick braid – only ever plaited when hard work dictates – flopping down behind her. His fingers tighten around her hips, pressing into her, and she inches forward, an almost solemn look taking over her face as she lowers herself down to straddle his lap. Bucky scoots back, just a bit, and wraps his arms tightly around her middle, dropping his face – along with a despondent-sounding sigh – to her breasts.

“I’m not excited to fight,” she murmurs, finally acknowledging his concerns as her fingers slowly thread into his hair. “It’s just… I don’t know.” She gives a quick, small shrug. “I guess it just feels nice… good… to be needed again.”

He pulls back and looks up at her, shoots her a confused grimace.

“I just mean… I was an X-Man, you know? And then the lead physician for _Earth’s mightiest heroes_. I led the med teams in charge of a bunch of adrenaline-junkie superheroes and seemingly impervious spies. And _then_ I headed up this whole, _huge_ division at one of the biggest tech companies in the world. It’s like I went from _everyone_ needing me – all the time – to… no one needing a thing.” Another shrug. “Except the goats.”

“I need you,” he says casually, squeezing his arms a little tighter around her middle.

She offers up an overdone, put-on frown – “Yeah, I know you do.” – and huffs out a breath. “Point is… I’m not excited to fight. I’m not excited for the _end of the world_. But I do feel pretty pumped about being out there… being part of the team again.” Her gaze ticks off towards nothing, pensive quality washing over her features. “Is that weird? It feels weird. Like I… pushed so long, so hard to _not_ be part of a team. The X-Men. The Avengers.” Her eyes return to his, deep green meeting clouded blue-gray. “Us.”

His right arm slowly unfurls, hand rising to her cheek, thumb easily tracing the line of her jaw before popping up to linger at her now-pouty bottom lip. “That was a long time ago, baby,” he mutters softly. “You had a hard time trusting… had good reason to be wary…”

She purses her lips and ducks her face just a bit, pressing a quick, firm kiss to the pad of his thumb. Then, with a rather long sigh – almost a groan – she admits, “I guess I’ve missed the team after all. Or… being part of the team. Or,” she drawls out, a sudden mischievous color to her face, “being part of the _action_.”

He huffs out a laugh. “If by being part of the action you mean being able to make decisions and boss people around, then yeah, I’d say that sounds like you.”

“Do you think Steve would let me do that? Or T’Challa? Maybe M’Baku would let me issue orders to his men… he’s got a thing for me, you know?”

“Yeah,” he barks out amid a sardonic chuckle. “I know.”

“Jealous?” she teases brightly.

“Not really,” he shrugs, small frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “Not of M’Baku. Of your… infatuation with the _king_ maybe…”

She nods thoughtfully, lips pinching tightly and eyes narrowing into a contemplative countenance. “Yeah… I guess that’s fair. He is kinda my type. Tall, dark and…”

“Please don’t say _fuckable_.”

Her eyes roll dramatically back. “I was going to say _enigmatic_.”

Bucky’s eyes lighten, single brow rising in anticipation. “Does that mean you think _I’m_ enigmatic?”

“Would I have married you otherwise?” His face pulls into a mask of sudden suspicion, a thing that elicits a sly wink from the woman still perched on his lap. “Also,” she drawls out then, pulling back just a bit and raising a serious, pointed finger in his face. “T’Challa very clearly loves cats. And that’s a huge turn on for me.”

“Ha, ha,” he deadpans thickly.

She smiles down at him, that wide, sincere – oddly playful – beam that only seems to pull across her face for him. That beautiful, genuine, purely _Tessa_ grin that still manages to set his heart to stutter even after all these years. “You have nothing to worry about,” she tells him, her voice soft and low. “Now that you’ve saddled me with your offspring… who else would have me?”

He blows out a quick snort of a laugh, head shaking fondly. “Here I thought we were starting a family. I had no idea you just thought of this as me _trapping_ you.”

She lets out a long sigh. “Truth is, baby or no, I’m pretty sure you’ve ruined all other men for me. Just by being you.”

His lips pull into a crooked smile – “See, now that’s what I like to hear.” – and he straightens himself beneath her just enough to be able to capture her grinning mouth with his. Just as the kiss begins to intensify, a sharp heat ripping through him the moment she lets loose with a tiny moan and spills it inside of him, the call beads on his wrist begin to blink in a bright blue SOS.

He lets her go with a long, low groan, face twisting into a defeated frown as she pushes herself up and off his lap. “Come on,” she breathes out, tightening the final strap of her uniform in preparation. “Let’s go stave off the end of the world. Again.”

000

It had been a simple request – _open the barrier_ – as though bringing down the wall that separated Wakanda from… whatever the hell those things lurking outside were was somehow a _good_ idea. Every single mouth in the supposedly impenetrable control room – buried deep inside the palace walls – hung agape when the king issued that order. And every man and woman on the battlefield steeled themselves for the fierce melee that was set to come their way as a result of it.

There was a moment – just a fraction of a moment, really – as a collective sharp gasp pulled through the crowd of soldiers and soldiers-for-today, when Tessa let down her own walls, opening herself up just a bit to catch a glimpse of what the others beside her were feeling.

It was too much – no surprise in these powerful moments of pre-battle fervor – a quick, stifling wave of nausea and dizziness tearing through her along with all of the intensity. But if there was one word she could think to attach to the erratic energy on the field at that very instant, it was _tenacity_. Fear, yes. Terror… absolutely. Regret? Some. But an overwhelming amount of sheer dogged determination thrummed through her long after she proceeded to shut them all out.

They _believed_.

Did they believe they could truly win this fight? Defeat those… alien devil dogs that continuously battled through the barrier in a mostly fruitless attempt to destroy the enemy? Maybe. Or maybe they just believed in T’Challa. Perhaps even in the now-disgraced Captain America who stood ready to lead the charge as well. Or maybe it was just enough to _know_ that they were on the right side, that this fight – no matter the outcome – was surely the most laudable endeavor any of them had ever been a part of.

That belief, that unyielding tenacity, steeled her, _inspired_ her, wound staunchly around her own stubborn resolve to make her just that much more unyielding. Tenacious. And that’s how she ended up _here_ , crouching, hidden just behind a copse of trees – Steve and Bucky flanking either side, no more than ten feet behind her – waiting for that simple request, that seemingly suicidal order to be enacted.

Tessa tosses a quick glance to her left, catches Natasha’s new platinum blonde hair shining in the sun as she too remains tucked behind a thick outset of trees. The two lock eyes. “In position?” her voice rumbles through the comm device in Tessa’s ear.

She gives a short nod, pulls in a deep breath, repeats back to herself those words she had just – perhaps foolishly – spoken to T’Challa moments ago. _Wait until I get out there. I can take out the first wave or two myself. Lighten the load._

Her eyes shift over to Steve, catch his face twisting in a swift and disgusted grimace as another alien beast is sluiced in half at the perimeter. She shakes her head shortly and turns to stare contemplatively out at the throngs of enemy aliens. “I don’t know how many of them I can…” she mumbles vaguely. “A lot. I’m sure. But…”

The Captain’s the one to answer her implicit doubt, his staunch, confident words booming in her earpiece. “Do what you can. We’ve got your six.”

“Just… don’t do too much,” Bucky interjects, his tone slow and sharp. “Keep enough energy to run. And fight.”

Again, she nods, this time pulling herself upright and stepping out into the open. A swift breath. A deep, pulsating heat roiling within. Her hands fist and unclench, fingers wiggling and dancing as tiny tendrils of light – _red_ light – begin to pop and crackle from the tips.

Natasha’s at just the right vantage point to catch the fiery burn glisten in her eyes, casting a red hot sheen to the air around her. A small gasp pulls from the blonde’s throat, little more than a breath buried beneath the constant hint of static on the comms. She watches her friend plant her feet, fist her hands – now swirling with an almost blinding array of bright red swaths of light – one final time, and utter through tightly clenched teeth, “Now.”

The invisible barrier flickers away, dozens – _hundreds_ – of alien enemy thrusting their way through, trampling each other as they go. In her periphery, she can hear the steady _pop, pop, pop_ of her husband’s gun firing off shot after shot as a means to keep the beasts from reaching her. And something about that seemingly futile act causes the corner of her mouth to pull into a cunning, crooked grin.

A second – maybe two or three – is all it takes for the throngs of foes to see her and gallop straight ahead towards that blinding red light. “Tess,” hisses into her ear, a firm directive from Steve issued out with just a bit too much of an edge. But still she waits. One… two seconds more. Then she kneels down to the ground, places her fiery hands flat along the vibrating earth, and closes her eyes tight.

“What the hell,” she hears vaguely, Bucky’s perplexed voice sounding far-off despite filtering directly into her ear through the comm. “What…”

She blocks him out, blocks _everything_ out. Everything but the tremulous, tumultuous energy being fired through the earth from the violently stampeding beings atop it. She focuses on that energy, tugs lightly at the tenuous thread, wrapping herself around it to fortify the connection. Then – with a single, short breath – she pulls it _all_ inside.

A fraction of a moment, no more. Her entire body swells with energy, sharp sizzles of light popping from every inch of exposed flesh, long, thick tendrils of brilliant red – and blinding blue – winding along her arms and legs, hugging tight around her torso. A shrill peal echoes through each and every earpiece on the field, crackling them all – momentarily – into oblivion. And then she rises up – just as the beasts pull within feet of her – and thrusts her hands forward, palms cracking into lava-filled fissures. And she forces every bit of energy pulled out towards the stampede before her.

Blood – thick black and oddly blue – shoots in every direction, bits of flesh and sinew exploding, firing, traveling through the sky, falling to the ground in wet plops. There’s a pause – even these seemingly mindless attack animals halting with the sudden realization that _this way lies death_ – before the momentary lapse into survival mode dissipates and sends another wave towards her.

This time, she keeps her hands outstretched, pulling the energy of the advancing enemy from the air, the wind, the tumultuous space around them, before swiftly thrusting it all back into them. As with the first wave – as with any living being she’s ever done this with in the past – the bodies before her fill and _blow_ , unable to contain the energy she’s managed to transmute… to spin and twirl and alter from a source of life into a horrible and vicious cause of death.

Someone in the control room manages to reset the comms, a sudden swell of voices infiltrating her consciousness – _fuck! What the hell was that?! Nasty! How many more can she take out? Don’t overdo it, Tess_ – and shifting her focus. A sharp gasp pulls from her chest as a wave of soldiers – Dora Milaje sprinkled in amidst relatively untrained city dwellers and fearsome Jabari warriors – races past her, inadvertently sliding through alien guts and gore to get at the next advancement.

Some of the fire in her core – and flittering around her limbs – begins to flicker and fade as she watches in horror, warriors tumbling and slicing, and too many ultimately faltering, in what seems to be largely imbalanced hand-to-hand combat. “W-wait,” she chokes out, stumbling as someone slams into her shoulder, knocking her off balance. “Wait!” coming then in a frantic shout as she shoves forward to reclaim her spot at the front.

Fire continues to thrum through her as she goes, inadvertently shocking a few soldiers, causing them to stumble and drop to their knees. “Tessa!” sounds, not from the device in her ear, but a call on the wind. But she ignores it, running, slipping, lurching forward, dropping – _bursting_ – a handful of alien attackers along the way. “Tessa!” again, the frantic shout now closer than before, right on her heels.

To her left, a Jabari warrior is _torn apart_ , the sight causing her to flinch and still for a breath of a moment before a ferocity she’s only felt a few times in her life shoots up her spine, forcing her to spin and advance. She actually throws herself atop the giant four-legged alien still tearing into the soldier, grasping at its flesh as a squeal of pain shoots through it, the sound fading off to nothing as her blazing palms sink through its body until she’s elbow deep in its fallen carcass.

“Tessa! Damn it!” rails from behind as the pinch and pull of vibranium fingers dig into her shoulder, surely bruising despite the protection of her suit. Bucky tugs her to him so harshly that she doesn’t even have time to get her feet back beneath her before tumbling to his chest. “What the hell are you doing?” he spews out, sharpshooter eyes dancing across the battlefield and honing in on targets as he speaks.

She cringes dully, shifting in his too-tight embrace as he fires several – unbearably loud – rounds off to the right. “Stop. It,” she seethes, struggling against him, her gaze following the retreat of several soldiers in the distance. “I need to…” is all she can get out before seeing each of the men torn to shreds by some sort of spinning craft… an intergalactic combine.

Her mouth falls agape, eyes blowing wide. Her myopia fades, the sounds of the battlefield coming to life around her. It isn’t just the vicious, mindless alien dogs surrounding them now. It’s _others_. Alien warriors, soldiers, battle-ready beings ripping their way through the Wakandan forces. And it’s those _vehicles_ , those odd and dangerous spacecrafts plowing over the living and dead alike on their way to the palace. On their way to Vision and Wanda. On their way to the mind stone.

“Come on,” Bucky mutters, his words barely discernable over the cacophony surrounding them, but rumbling through his chest in a staunch, easily identifiable order all the same.

She resists as he tugs her back – away from the onslaught – digging in her heels and turning to pull from his grasp. But he’s too damn strong – and too damn determined – to let her go. “I can…” she metes out, a belligerent twist to her features. “I can _help_. That’s why I’m _here_.”

He doesn’t argue with her, doesn’t say another word in fact. He simply pinches his lips into a firm set line and continues to haul her away from the action at the open sector. It isn’t until they’re hidden away – soldiers and aliens both still fighting and sputtering on either side of them – behind a row of trees that he releases his hold and spins her to face him. Again, she cringes, fully aware that finger-shaped bruises are already blossoming on both her biceps as he grips her dangerously. “Look around you,” he says, his voice calm but for an undercurrent of sheer terror bleeding through. “They’ve taken over the battlefield. We’ve already lost the upper hand.”

“Which is why I need to get back out there,” she seethes, struggling against his hold.

“You can’t take them all on. You know that.” A sincerity burns through him, darkening his eyes. “Just…” he sputters a bit, swallowing thickly before going on. “Just _wait_.”

“Wait?!” she almost screams at him. “For what? For everyone to die? For them to make it to the palace? To Vision?”

“No,” he bites out, impatience leadening his tone. He presses a finger to his ear, pushing in the comm to hear more clearly whatever is being issued through it.

“What?” she asks, brows tugging curiously together as she reaches up to her own device, confused as to why she hears nothing trickling through it. It falls from her ear, a charred and melted clump of metal.

“Steve wants you at the rear,” Bucky issues out, tone lightening a bit at seeing the wrecked comm – realizing now that she wasn’t directly disobeying orders as they all first assumed. She simply never heard them. “We need to be able to get to Vision fast if they do manage to get close,” he finishes, reaching over and twisting her face a bit so he can inspect her ear. His lip curls in disgust when he sees blood and charred skin there.

“It’s fine,” she says, swiping at the hand holding her chin in place. “Must’ve burned it out with one of the… energy bursts.” She slowly pulls away from him and steps out to look beyond the trees, take stock of the goings on down the battlefield. “Stick to the rear,” she mutters dully, repeating the order that she’s sure was issued repeatedly in increasingly frustrated tones by Steve as she continued to advance towards the front. She almost laughs, picturing his irritated face, harkening his annoyed voice. She _almost_ laughs. But the sound that comes from her instead – as Wakandans and aliens both are struck down in droves before them – is little more than a horrified grunt.

“C’mon,” Bucky breathes out, grasping her arm once more, though this time with the practiced tenderness typically reserved for her. He leads her back out, instructing her to keep an eye on his six – “And _do not_ leave my side.” – as they flank the mass of the fighting, his rifle picking off enemy stragglers as they go.

With every passing moment – every calculated step taken in tandem – the fighting draws nearer. “How many are there?” she asks in wonder, eyes bouncing all over the battlefield. A sudden coldness creeps within, an icy ache coiling in her gut as she realizes just how extreme this threat truly is. “Jamie,” she mutters absently, his name slipping from her lips in dark plea.

He stops short and spins to look at her, confusion lacing his features.

She shakes her head slowly, sadly. “I didn’t really think…” she issues out, eyes still trained on the carnage ahead. “I didn’t… want to believe…”

He opens his mouth to speak, though no words form. From the corner of his eye, he sees more enemy approaching. So he swiftly turns to takes aim, bringing them down with just four methodically placed rounds. A crash like thunder resounds to his left, causing him to spin and sputter as he looks for the weaponry responsible. But it isn’t an armament that caused that weighty noise.

In the midst of the melee, another burst of thunder sounds, a sudden bolt of lightening cracking, splitting apart the sky and bringing with it brilliant blue trails of power and electricity. Much of the fighting halts – just for a breath of a moment – as none other than the god of thunder himself leaps to the earth, blowing apart the battlefield with his entrance.

All at once, the troops are split as the enemy no longer coalesces simply to move towards the palace, but jolts out to flee the rapid destruction taking place at the center. Hordes of seemingly terrified alien creatures stamped towards them, causing Bucky to drop to one knee and rapid fire into them.

Tessa, though, remains mesmerized by the sudden shift in power, watching with wide eyes as lightening continues to shoot through the enemy, energy so rich and vibrant that – even with her walls up – she can feel a steady trill thrum through her bones each time Thor issues out another bolt.

“Huh,” she huffs absently, turning just in time to see Steve blow his way through the battle, racing towards Thor and… “What the fuck is that?” she wonders aloud, so engrossed in staring at what appears to be a… tree waging war alongside her friends that she completely misses the hellhound beast about to lunge to her right.

Bucky fires a single shot, and the creature drops with a sharp yelp, pulling her focus back. “Not really the time to get distracted, sweetheart,” he shouts at her.

She spins on a heel, reaching a hand out towards a swarm of… oh, hell, how could she possibly know what those things are? She doesn’t think to call on the power of the Phoenix, doesn’t think to continue the practice of pulling out and forcing back in the energy of others. Instead, she does what feels like muscle memory, performing the simple defense she’s been honing since she was a child.

A twitch of her fingers, a blue glow to her eyes, and the lot of them drop, their carcasses tripping up the next wave of assailants, causing them to sputter back. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” she exclaims, folding over at the middle, hands dropping to her knees for support as their energy engulfs her, consumes her, causing her to gulp dramatically at the sulfured air.

Bucky’s at her side in an instant, firing off round after round as he leaps over the dead surrounding her. “What?” he asks, hand falling to her back for just a fraction of a second before he leans over the top of her to take aim at more creatures.

_Pop, pop, pop_ , pounds in her periphery, causing a tight grimace to take over as she slowly pulls herself upright, desperately wanting to tell him to stop shooting in her damn ear – especially now that she’s only really hearing out of the one – but struggling to find coherent words through all the buzzing in her skull.

He grabs her arm as she rises, twists her round to face him. “What?” he repeats, his eyes widening in pace with hers.

A wide, beaming smile tears across her face, his pulling into a confused – still utterly concerned – grimace. “That,” she stutters through uneven breaths, “was fucking… unbelievable.” A quick, breathless laugh spills out of her. “Alien energy,” she spouts excitedly, her voice carrying on the wind, eyes suddenly bursting with a bright blue shimmer. “That’s…”

“Yeah,” he smarts, an irritated bite to the word. He gives her a quick shove to the side and takes aim yet again, firing wildly into another oncoming wave, giving a quick nod of approval – and thanks – to M’Baku as he suddenly appears before them, leading his forces to bring down the swell. Bucky pulls back his weapon, gives it a quick once over and reloads. He glances to his left to find Tessa, once again, staring off into the distance, not paying a bit of attention to their immediate surroundings. “That’s great, baby,” he deadpans, grabbing onto the back of her suit and hauling her to his side.

She almost falls into him, shoulder slamming into his chest before she spins and shouts into him, “Alien energy!” An annoyed and impatient glower takes over his face, harshly contrasting with the absolute delight still splitting hers.

There’s a brief respite on their end of the battlefield, thanks to M’Baku taking care of things to their right and Steve still keeping a handle ahead of them. So he takes a moment to _breathe_ , to look around and assess.

It’s a fucking disaster. They weren’t kidding about this being a hell of a battle. Dangerous, terrifying, loud and long. And weird as fuck. Everywhere he turns, he sees more oddly bent and broken bodies. Most of them are… creatures. Things he never would’ve been able to picture, to imagine, even in his wildest and most absurd fantasies. But many of the dead are also Wakandans, and that awful – _real_ – knowledge is enough to keep him grounded, to keep his head from spinning amongst these things of dreams. Of nightmares.

He drops his hand to Tessa’s shoulder, offering a quick – hopefully reassuring – squeeze. Never mind the fact that she’s still grinning like an idiot, eyes tracking over the landscape with a distracted sort of awe and _he’s_ the one who actually needs some quiet reassurance right now.

“You alright?” he breathes out, concern knitting his brows as he feels her body quake beneath his palm. “You’re shaking.”

Her eyes are still shimmering, if just a bit duller than a moment ago. “Buzzing,” she declares with a dismissive shake of her head. “I’m good.” Her gaze then ticks wildly off as she notices something over his shoulder. Rising to her tiptoes and peering over him, she asks simply, “Is that raccoon on our side or theirs?”

It takes him a moment to actually comprehend her words, and a moment more to keep himself from panicking that his wife may be having a stroke. But sure enough, when he tosses a glance behind him, he sees a small woodland creature – outfitted in tac gear – blasting apart a herd of space dogs, delighted curses springing from his lips.

“Lady Doctor!” sounds in his periphery, causing his head to snap back, still-confused gaze now focusing on Thor as he swiftly approaches. “I am so glad you are here,” he enthuses, jogging over to Tessa’s side and pulling her into a bone-crushing embrace, lifting her easily from the earth and burying her within his arms.

“You cut your hair,” she mumbles, almost unintelligible as her face presses into his chest.

A small swell of laughter billows out of him as he sets her back down. “Yes, yes,” he declares with a grin, pulling away and holding her out at arms length. “And you… you’ve got glowing eyes!”

“Ah, that’ll fade,” she mutters, waving a hand absently through the air. “I just sucked up a bunch of alien energy. It was a little gross, but totally worth it.”

“Marvelous!”

She sidesteps him a bit, catching Bucky’s quizzical stare – equal parts confused and irate as he watches the interaction between his wife and the hulking god – out of the corner of her eye as she returns her gaze to the action behind him. “Thor, are you by chance friends with a talking racoon now?” she asks, the tiny creature’s shouts of, _die, scum, die!_ echoing through the air.

“Do you mean, Rabbit?”

She turns to him, single brow cocked, an uncertain, “Yes?” pulling from her lips in a tentative breath.

“Yes, yes,” he replies with a grin. “Good friends now. I met him on a ship with Tree.” He points casually across the way at the tree-like – _man-_ like – thing currently impaling a would-be assailant at Steve’s back with his branch of an arm.

“Huh,” she mutters again, unable to tear her eyes away. “Do you think they’d let me get a genetic sample? For science,” she clarifies before offering a casual shrug. “Once all this is over.”

“Baby,” Bucky interrupts, his tone swift and impatient. “Can you just… _not_ right now?”

“Not _what_?” she asks, a sudden swell of indignation rocketing through her. He rolls his eyes in response, prompting her mouth to pop open, a plethora of – admittedly hormone-fueled – pissed-off questions and curses building up in her throat, scrambling to tumble out of her.

But before she gets a chance to spout a single one of them at her obviously clueless husband, Thor grabs her by the shoulder and spins her around to face him once again. His expression is now drawn and serious, stern and somber. Tone low and methodical as he asks, “Do you recall, a bit ago, when I told you that the universe was on the brink of destruction? That a terrible and mighty force was bent on heinous designs?”

Her forehead crinkles in confusion. “I thought you said that _I_ was the terrible and mighty force.”

“Did I?” he questions, head cocking curiously to the side. “Well, no matter. That is, after all, the reason I believe that _you_ can destroy him.”

“Thanos?” Bucky bites out from over her shoulder, the name still sounding absurd and unreal on his tongue.

“Yes,” he nods, eyes ticking up to meet his strict gaze for a beat before falling back to Tessa’s. “He is what Heimdall had warned of.” A thick wave of grief and sorrow blows through him and into Tessa, almost causing her knees to buckle from the sudden ferocity. “He is the one who killed him. Heimdall. And Loki,” he adds with a soft, bitter cadence.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters absently, his attention on the conversation even as his eyes continue a rove across the battlefield.

“He will be coming here,” Thor states, his grip on Tessa’s arm tightening unconsciously into a bruising hold. “He needs the stone that resides in you computer-man’s head.”

“Yeah,” she says, slowly twisting free. Her eyes tick up to the line of windows marking Shuri’s lab. “We know. Wanda’s working on getting it out of him so we can destroy it.”

He nods, the gesture affirming but also, somehow, filled with doubt. “He may already have the others,” he mutters dejectedly. “And if so, if he gets the final stone…”

“Thor,” she interrupts, pulling his seemingly lost gaze down to her. “I don’t know who – or what – this Thanos is. But I do know that _everything_ in this universe is made of energy. And I _am_ energy…” She gives him a small, crooked smile – more a confident smirk, really. “I think we got this.”

He delivers a tight nod, seemingly pleased with that answer, even if not fully convinced. She tosses a glance to Bucky, sees a look of concern wash over his face, feels an anxious hit of nervous energy slough off of him. And she breathes a quick sigh of relief that neither of the men in front of her have the ability to feel her own fear and doubt swirling within.


	4. Recover

_Wakanda. A little over a year ago_ :

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” he snipes impatiently, running an exhausted hand down the length of his face.

“Yes,” Tessa seethes bitterly, continuing her anxious pace in front of him, the bare soles of her feet padding lightly atop the dark tile of the lab’s floor. “I’m _kidding_ you… because this is all one giant fucking joke!”

Shuri, who moments ago had finally given up – _Is this how you two always are?_ – and slumped into a chair while the interloping couple in front of her fought it out in her lab, releases an annoyed sigh and, with a rather disinterested air, mutters, “Not a very funny one.” A look of pure vitriol is turned on the young scientist, one that results in little more than another huff and eyeroll. “You think _he_ is being the crazy one here?”

Tessa’s teeth audibly grind together, her angular jaw setting for a long moment as she stares the young woman down. “You don’t understand,” she metes out finally, her shoulders dropping along with her fiery gaze. “You just… don’t understand.”

She pops up from her seat with a dramatic flair. “I understand your current physical condition,” she argues with a conceited lilt. “I understand that you have been comatose for nearly three weeks. And that, despite multiple transfusions of super-serum-filled plasma, your body is still weak.”

Her head shoots up, defiant posture returning. “I am not _weak_.”

Bucky lets out an irritated huff from behind, a seemingly placating, “Baby,” slipping from his lips.

But Shuri – as he’s come to realize over these past few weeks practically _living_ up here in the lab with her – is not one to back down. She certainly does not need him intervening on her behalf. The young woman’s expression steels, her shoulders pulling taut, long neck straitening in a challenging stance. “You are severely underweight. Your body temperature is still well above normal. I haven’t even begun to effectively reverse the renal failure – ”

“Not that again,” Tessa interrupts blithely, waving a dismissive hand. “My kidney’s fine. My temperature’ll level out. And I can eat on the road.”

“You’re not going on the road,” Bucky declares pointedly, the almost enraged snarl returning to his voice and pulling Tessa’s attention for just a fraction of a moment before her head jerks back to Shuri.

The young scientist advances on her, coming to a stop mere inches away. “I should put you back into a coma!” she shouts, her words reverberating through the otherwise empty lab. “For someone I once believed was _so_ smart, you are acting quite the fool!”

“That’s kind of her thing,” Bucky mumbles, just a bit too loudly to actually be under his breath.

Shuri’s shouts – and frankly Tessa’s too, as she had let more than a few earsplitting expletives out over the past twenty minutes or so – attract a couple of curious visitors, T’Challa and the queen mother herself striding into the room. “What is going on in here?” the queen asks – _demands_ – before her son has the chance to inquire.

“Mother,” Shuri begins, needing no more prompting. “This… crazy woman has been awake for mere hours and is already trying to escape!”

“I didn’t realize I needed to _escape_ ,” Tessa intones harshly. “Am I being held prisoner?”

“You are a _fool_ ,” she spits back at her.

Bucky rises from his seat, pulling himself up slowly, the exhaustion that he’s been steadily fighting for the past three weeks, staving off to remain at his wife’s bedside, finally taking it’s toll. He turns to the queen. “Your majesty,” he starts, his slow, tired words swiftly being batted away by a dismissive wave.

“Have we not discussed this already?” she asks impatiently, accusing brow raised high as she waits for him to correct himself.

“Ramonda,” he begins again, easily caving to the informality she’s been _repeatedly_ requesting from him. “You’re daughter’s right. My wife’s a fool.”

Tessa lets out a squeaky sort of, “Hey,” followed by a genuinely affronted huff. Then she turns to the woman – whom she now realizes must be Queen Ramonda – and states simply, working _hard_ to keep her frustration in check, “I’m not a _fool_. I just can’t be here right now.”

“And why is that?” she asks, the words tumbling from her mouth with such poise and boldness that it causes Tessa to sputter briefly.

“I… my… there are people… out there who need me. My family.”

Ramonda nods slowly, simply. “Yes. My son has explained to me the terrible goings-on in the world right now. We try so very hard to… do things differently here, in Wakanda. I do hope you know that.”

She cocks her head curiously. “I… sure. But… what the hell difference does that make?”

“I’m sorry?” the queen asks, tone cutting and controlled even as a low, _oooooh_ , spills out of Shuri from behind, the young woman taking an overly dramatic step backwards.

Tessa, though, advances, seemingly reinvigorated with a burst of righteous indignation. “I don’t know how many mutants you have in your country… Though I’d guess far more than you know as _everywhere_ on this planet we’ve been forced to hide and deny who we are. But I can tell you that there are _millions_ out in that world right now. Out in that world you’re so adept at cutting yourself off from.”

“Tess,” comes in a short warning tone from Bucky.

“Admittedly, I only know of _one_ mutant in our midst right now,” Ramonda declares easily, her eyes narrowing as she brazenly steps forward as well. “One whom my daughter has spent far too many sleepless nights trying to _help_.”

“One,” Tessa repeats, a vehemence in her voice. “There are _so many more_.” She leans back on her heels and looks around the room, an almost desperate glance connecting briefly with each and every set of eyes. “Who’s helping them?”

“Steve,” Bucky states, striding steadily to her side. “And Sam. Wanda and Natasha. Hopefully still Stark… he said he’d do more. And your family… the Professor told me that they were going underground to help. He _told me_ that they’d be safe and they could handle it… and that you should just – ”

“What?” she nearly shouts, her eyes glistening with sudden tears as she turns on him. “I should just _what_? Sit here and do _nothing_?”

Shuri slinks forward and drops a hand to her shoulder, her tone now tranquil and tender as she says softly, simply, “You should _recover_.”

000

It’s nearly a week of nothing but _recovery_. A week of Tessa pacing the halls and wringing her hands and _refusing_ to sit still and just _be_. A week of Bucky staving off incessant demands for updates about the outside world, grinding his teeth in annoyance and chiding himself every time the thought flits through his mind… _better off in a coma_. A week of Shuri working to regenerate renal cells in between impatient hand slapping as the bored and weary doctor tries to insert herself into her lab. It’s a week of pure, unequivocal misery.

And then, finally, in a blessed break from the tedium, the small group of wayward Avengers returns to Wakanda. Though _returns_ is a bit of an overstatement for Sam and Steve, the two not even leaving the decked-out hangar at the palace, only milling about long enough to see Tessa, give her a hug, and trade a few words of relief – _I honestly thought you were a goner_ , from a chagrined Sam. _I never doubted you in the least_ , emanating from a newly bearded Steve – before heading back out.

The plan had simply been to drop off Wanda, the precise reason for that still being rather unclear to Tessa, who all week long continued to insist that her powers were, “Fine! Jesus, stop harassing me!”

Not that she was about to argue with having her friend back.

_Friends_.

Much to Bucky’s annoyance, Natasha chooses to stay the night as well… though the one night is all that she can spare. Still, _one night_ burns at him, the idea of Tessa taking a break from _recovery_ to have a _weird adult sleepover_ – as Nat refers to it – seeming pointless, even borderline reckless. Especially when he – who has barely left his wife’s side for more than an hour at a time – isn’t invited.

“The point of them coming back here was for Wanda to help you get a feel for where your powers are,” he grumbles whilst gathering a few things from their shared room at the palace. “It wasn’t to have some kind of _slumber party_ that gets me kicked out of my room.”

“There are fifteen other guestrooms to choose from, Sergeant,” a smirking – already pajama-clad – Shuri explains as she shoves past him. “Yet you always insist on _howling_ about everything.”

“I don’t get why you invited her,” he mumbles under his breath to Tessa before pressing a lingering kiss to her temple.

“Because she’s my friend. And she deserves to be rewarded for that feat,” she tells him with an acerbic lilt.

“Yeah, I can’t argue with that.” He leans in close, breathing out, “Have fun,” in a gentle whisper just for her, right alongside the so often uttered, “Be good.” Then, forced to move aside as Natasha slinks through the doorway, several bottles of booze dangling from her hands, he lets out a low growl, rolls his eyes and disappears into the hall.

The impromptu girls night might be an unwelcome intrusion for Bucky, but for the rest of them, it’s _exactly_ what’s needed.

Even with Shuri making the lot of them feel old as fuck with her – as Bucky liked to call it – _newfangled pop culture bullshit_. And with Natasha expertly – and infuriatingly – avoiding any and all of Tessa’s inquiries about just _how_ they’re helping mutants in the outside world… a thing that Steve swore to her they were doing. And with Wanda tossing worried glances throughout the night as she seemingly works to assess just how bad off Tessa is after her most recent near-death experience. _And_ with the constant, lingering knowledge that, come the morning, they’ll all be separated once again… possibly forever. Even with all of that, the gathering still feels pretty damn great.

There are – according to Shuri – _old_ romcoms playing on the giant screen on the far wall. There’s popcorn. And cookies. And multiple bottles of flavored vodka that get passed around the room. There’s a bit of gossip about the goings-on back at home – _Tony wanted us to tell you that Peter blew everyone’s mind at his science fair. And Pepper’s still too busy to decide on a wedding date. Bruce took off on some kind of humanitarian adventure again… or at least that’s what he’s calling it. No clue where he actually went._

And then there’s… _them_.

To Tessa, it may have only been a week or so since she last saw her friends, just a week since they came rushing to her aide to help rescue her people from torture and experimentation. But – she realized when the group all mobbed her at once, doting and sniffling and embracing her so, so tight – _they_ hadn’t seen _her_ in nearly a month. And when they left she was comatose, completely unresponsive, even to Wanda’s _inquiries_. Practically dead. As a result, there’s a sort of poignant, grateful enthusiasm that sloughs off of both her old friends throughout the night, settling deep into Tessa’s bones, helping to remind her that not all of her family is gone.

But the night is also elevated by the rather obvious fact that – for the two on-the-run Avengers at least – this _one night_ is a getaway, a vacation, an escape… and damn if they aren’t going to treat it like one. They’d been forced to leave their previous lives behind, and with that any semblance of leisure and relaxation. They’d been made to live like fulltime renegades. Outlaws. Desperados, endlessly bouncing across the world.

“I would love to go Beijing,” Shuri laments wistfully as Natasha lists off some of the places they’ve swept through over the past few weeks. “We went to Shanghai once, but my brother would only let me go to the parts where all of the ex-pats roam.”

Nat shrugs and grabs onto a bottle of cherry vodka, takes a quick swig. “You go outside of the tourist areas in China looking… different, and you’ll just get mobbed by every local wanting to pose for pictures with you.”

Tessa furrows her brow. “Just because she’s black?”

She nods. “Sure. Or because of this,” she says, grabbing hold of her thick, red ponytail.

Wanda giggles, passing off the vodka after taking a drink herself. “You should have seen it. Everyone wanted to _touch_ _it_.”

“Her hair?”

Natasha lets out a short scoff. “I need to change it up. Too recognizable.”

Wanda’s eyes blow wide. “If you dye your hair some other color, can I do red? I’ve always wanted to be a redhead.”

She gives her a bit of a side-eyed glare. “You don’t have to wait for me to change my hair, Wanda. Do what you want.”

Tessa frowns and pinches a chunk of her own hair between thumb and forefinger, stares at it with a hint of disdain. “I should go blonde again.”

“Again?” Shuri asks, curious brow cocked. Then, with an adamant shake of her head, “I can’t picture it.”

“I spent more money on bleach as a kid than I did on booze and cigarettes.” The rather horrified look on the young woman’s face is enough to cause Tessa to snort out a laugh.

“I can’t really picture it either,” Wanda offers. “And I don’t know why you’d want to do that to your hair anyway. It’s so beautiful.”

“It’s so _long_ ,” Natasha interjects, reaching over and giving her dark locks a little tug. “How long has it been since you cut that mop?”

She shrugs. “Right before the wedding, I guess.”

“So almost a year?” She rolls her eyes and turns to Shuri. “You do have stylists here, right? Do me a favor and get this girl in somewhere.”

“But don’t let her bleach anything,” Wanda spits out vehemently.

Tessa’s frown deepens, her eyes veering off to the half-eaten bag of fun-size Snickers. “You guys are no fun,” she bemoans, awkwardly collecting a handful of candy.

“No fun?!” Nat exclaims wildly as she pulls herself to her knees and reaches across the nest of blankets on the floor to swipe at a birthday-cake-flavored vodka. “Did you see what we tricked Steve into doing?”

Mouth full of chocolate, Tessa jolts upright, “I _knew_ that beard wasn’t his idea,” she sputters excitedly. Her head begins shaking slowly back and forth, pensive look rolling over her face as she swallows down the candy. “Sweet, clean cut Stevie Rogers sporting a scraggily ass beard like some kind of… _hipster_.”

Shuri glares skeptically at her. “Your husband has a beard.”

She tosses a quick glance her way. “That’s just because he knows it drives me crazy. He’s taunting me.”

Natasha takes an extra-long pull from the bottle still in her hand. “You mean it drives you crazy? Or it _drives you crazy_?” she asks with a wiggle of her brows.

“No,” she bleats out, reaching behind her and fumbling around for the grape vodka – the grossest of all, according to the rest of the women. Her lips purse, eyes narrowing as she drops deep into thought. “Sometimes,” she nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, sometimes it’s… _nice_.”

“Well, I like the beard on Steve,” Wanda mutters, almost to herself, seemingly oblivious to the thick innuendo circulating in the room. Three sets of astonished – and highly amused – eyes turn on her. “What? I think it looks… distinguished.”

“Professor Rogers?” Tessa comments with a snort, earning little more than an impassive shrug from her friend.

“I think I agree,” Shuri states then, offering a conclusive nod. She reaches for a bottle of vodka, Natasha swiping it from her hand and glaring chidingly at her before tossing her another can of Coke. The young woman sneers at the offending drink and goes on to say, “There are too many clean cut men in these halls. Give me the dirty, bearded white boy.”

“Oh my God!” Tessa exclaims, folding in on herself with laughter. “You _cannot_ say that. He’s old enough to be your… great-great-grandfather!”

“Wait,” Nat interrupts. “When you say _dirty_ bearded white boy, my mind goes to Barnes.”

Shuri shrugs, a suggestive sheen to her eyes as they flicker over at Tessa. And then she – like the other women in the room – dissolves into a joyous fit of laughter.

In what seems like no time at all, the sun begins it’s all too swift ascent over the horizon, and they all filter out to the balcony to take in the beauty of this exotic place, swaying exhaustedly on their feet as they lazily lean into one another, arms looped. Shuri has someone bring up coffee, which they down alongside leftover cookies, sitting cross legged on the floor in an achingly comfortable silence.

Then… Natasha leaves. With little more than a swift hug goodbye, a few sincere parting words – _The next time I see you, you better be good as new… Tessa 4.0_ – and she heads off for the bus station in the city, on her way to some sort of recon mission that she refuses to give _any_ details about.

Shuri slinks moodily off to her room – the sleepless night apparently turning the brilliant teenage scientist into a temperamental toddler once the party officially ends – while Tessa and Wanda collapse onto the bed for a two-hour-long nap. Their much needed slumber is broken by Bucky’s annoyed scoff – and pissed-off swearing – as he returns to the room after a late morning run, kicking his way through the blankets and empty bottles of booze decorating the floor.

He takes a quick shower, picks up their trash as they both continue to lounge, both whining pathetically when he tells them he _knows_ they’re awake. And then he leaves them to it, _hoping_ that they’ll use their time wisely, Wanda only planning on being with them for a few days at most.

It’s another hour before they finally pull themselves from bed, lazily dressing as they drink what’s left of the cold coffee. Then they take off to seek out food from one of the myriad vendors parked right outside the palace doors. They walk a bit further, devouring roti and tucking additional goodies under their arms as they head for the gardens around back.

“James doesn’t like it when I come out here,” Tessa mutters scornfully, casually bumping shoulders with a tea-slurping Wanda. Her lips pull into a coy grin, a bit of sarcasm peppering her words when she declares, “Apparently I might get kidnapped or drop dead or maybe cause an international incident if I’m away from his side for too long.”

Wanda throws her an incredulous glare before twisting around to pull up in front of a large stone bench. “You’ve literally done all of those things,” she deadpans, dropping heavily down before her.

Tessa sits on the bench beside her and lets out a long, yielding sigh. “Yeah, well…”

“You really shouldn’t be so hard on him,” she says, her _suggestion_ earning a bitter scowl from the woman by her side. But Wanda, of course, is _not_ intimidated in the least, and she returns the look with a challenging one of her own.

“I know,” she relents, blowing out a frustrated breath. “I know. I get it. He’s… nervous. Scared.”

“He has a right to be.”

A skeptical scoff rolls from her tongue, but her gaze falters just the same, an almost embarrassed – _shamed_ – blush blooming across her cheeks. “He wants us to stay here. _Really_ stay,” she begins, voice low and subdued. “T’Challa said he’d give us a house, some land.” She shrugs. “I don’t even know what that means… land? For what?” She sucks in a harsh breath and turns bodily to face Wanda. “And Shuri said I can work with her. In her lab. Which would be… it’d be… I don’t know… a dream come true. It _should_ be that. But…”

“But what?” she asks, genuine lilt to her tone.

Tessa shakes her head and drops her gaze to her lap, to both of her hands white knuckling the stone bench on either side of her. “I don’t know. I guess… maybe I’m just not sure if that’s really what I want.”

Wanda’s eyes blow wide. “You’re not sure if you want to be a doctor? A scientist?”

“No,” she bleats out hurriedly. “I mean… I _am_ a scientist. That’s… I don’t know… in my _bones_.” Her eyes flicker away once more and she bites down on the corner of her lip, eyes narrowing as she tries to focus on some small, lovely – unrecognizable – flower in the distance. Then a sigh, deep and sullen, lip popping free as her mouth opens to speak, the words struggling to come out, falling hesitantly from her tongue. “Maybe I just… need a break.”

“Well, yeah,” Wanda laughs out. “Of course you do. That’s what we’ve _all_ been saying. For a _long_ time.”

She shakes her head, muttering – this time with an almost broken inflection, “I know. But…”

“Tessa, when we tell you that you need to heal,” Wanda starts, her voice low and oddly authoritative. “We’re not just talking about your body.”

“I…” She drops her head rather sheepishly. “I know.”

“You need to heal mentally and emotionally,” she states, eager to drive home the point, uncertain if the terribly stubborn woman in front of her really does _know_. “And _James_ needs to heal too,” she points out with a raised brow. “You need to heal together.”

Tessa looks back up at her, emerald eyes so dark and… lost.

“Everything you’ve been through,” she goes on, striving to explain. “ _Both of you_ … And I don’t just mean these last months, the kidnapping and the… fallout. I mean _everything_ ,” she drones with a tender note. “Tessa, you haven’t been able to just _be_ , just the two of you, in _years_. So much has kept you apart.” She cocks a knowing brow and nods. “Even when you were able to be together.”

She nods slowly – “Maybe…” – and shrugs. “I guess.”

“Can I ask you something?” Wanda asks. Her shoulders stiffen, back straightening as she sits tall, dropping her hands into her lap. Tessa nods… slowly, nervously. “I felt your fear and doubt the moment I stepped off that jet. It’s… loud. Louder even than the anger that you keep putting out there for everyone to see.” She levels her friend with a perceptive – and rather admonishing – look before releasing a short sigh. “Do you think, maybe, _that’s_ where the fear and doubt are coming from?”

She cocks her head curiously. “What do you mean?”

“You just said that you don’t know if the things you _used_ to want are things that you _still_ want now. And I know you said it about work, but… maybe you’re afraid it reaches beyond just that?”

Tessa swallows down the harsh defensiveness that threatens to spill out. It takes just an instant for her to recognize and accept that this person beside her – for better or worse – can see into her _soul_ like no one else can. And if what she’s seeing is fear and doubt, well, they’re undoubtably there, whether she wants to admit it or not.

After a long, silent moment, she shrugs and lets out a disgruntled snort. “I don’t know,” she mutters rather flippantly, her fingers gripping tighter to the bench, muscles straining. “Maybe… maybe I don’t really know right now… who I am… or _what_ I am… or, really, what _we_ are – James and me – without all of those _other_ things. Without the… chaos and the constant threats and the trauma and the…” She shakes her again, jaw clenching tight. “I don’t know.”

Wanda nods slowly, watching carefully as the muscles in Tessa’s jaw twitch, listening to the barely there sounds of her teeth grinding. “I think you should stay here,” she says then, tone certain. “I think that you and James should stay here in Wakanda and… get away from all of those other things. Take a break from the world. Heal and recover. And… figure out who you are now. And who you _want_ to be.”

She shakes her head slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I mean… how can I do that? Just… slink away and hide from… _everything_?”

“Tessa,” she breathes out, an air of impatience to her typically serene voice. “I know you want to help out there. But right now… I don’t think there’s anything you can do. Not really. And people are looking for you. It’s dangerous for you.”

“But…”

“No.” She shakes her adamantly, scoots closer on the bench and lays a palm atop her friend’s knee as she levels her with an all too serious stare. “That mission with Lobe, _years_ ago now. The motorcycle accident. Your… captivity. The raid in Canada. Tessa, we’ve almost lost you so many times. Too many times. I can’t… I couldn’t… bear to lose you. For good, I mean.”

“You won’t,” she says, brow furrowed, voice stoic and certain.

“You’re not invincible,” she tells her, eyes widening, expression setting sternly. “I know it might seem that way. Because you _have_ survived so much. And because you _are_ so very powerful. But you’re not.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Her fingers tighten around Tessa’s knee.

A breath catches in her chest, head jerking back a bit as her mouth bobs open for a moment before responding. “I… yes. I know.”

“Because, _I_ know. I know that you’re not invincible. I know how close you came…”

“Wanda,” she breathes out tenderly, seeing the woman’s eyes begin to glisten with wistful tears.

“I stayed with you… in your mind, trying to keep you stable… until we got here.” She lets out a long, somber breath. “And then… once we arrived… once Shuri put you into a coma… I couldn’t reach you again.” There’s a darkness in her stare, a shadowed quality that Tessa knows belies a so damn much pain. But she can’t feel any of it, Wanda easily cutting her off to keep her lamenting energy to herself.

She scoffs at that, rolling her eyes with a hint of disgust. But a small, fond – perhaps even grateful – smile graces her lips nonetheless. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no reason to be sorry. I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want you to be… careful.”

“Okay.”

“I want you to understand that you’re human,” she says, ducking her head and giving Tessa’s knee another firm squeeze. “An incredible, _powerful_ human. But human.”

“Ah, yeah,” Tessa breathes out, posture straightening a bit. “About those powers…”

“Yeah,” Wanda hums, curiosity curling around her words as she easily slips out of the melancholy mood. “What exactly is it that I’m here to do anyway? Have you been having trouble with your powers? Accessing them? Controlling them?”

“No,” she declares with a bit of a defensive edge. Then, shrugging slightly, “I don’t think so, anyway. I mean, it’s only been a week. It’s not like I’ve really _tried_ anything, you know?” She lets out a long, labored sigh. “Bringing you in was James’ idea. He thought it’d be good to have you here in case… fuck, I don’t even know.”

“Shuri mentioned something about… what was it? She wanted to hook me up to… things,” she mutters with a raised brow and an almost disgusted pull of her lip.

A light chuckle burbles out of Tessa, allows her to relax just a bit as she slinks further back on the bench, her feet lifting from the ground and swaying easily in a childlike way. “Biofeedback. Yeah,” she sighs out. “She wants to see how I react physically to using my powers. And how my physical body – mostly my brain – works to control them.” A quick shrug and quirk of her lip, and she gives Wanda a bit of a teasing, sidelong glance. “Guess she’s curious about what happens with you too.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” she mutters with a frown.

“It _would_ be interesting to see the effects,” Tessa croons, crooked smile blooming.

Wanda lets out a small laugh and gives a barely there shake of her head before returning to the subject at hand. “So you don’t think you’ve been having issues with your powers… you think you’re all good?”

“Yeah,” she offers alongside a blasé shrug. “Look, I get why they’re worried… all of them. James… he thinks I’ll get hurt. He thinks I might be careless with them and…”

“Overdo it?” she asks with a knowing cadence.

“Yeah,” she snorts out. “And T’Challa and Shuri… they’re taking a hell of a risk helping me out. And the truth is, I _am_ dangerous. So it makes sense that they’d want to know just what I’m capable of. And it makes sense that they’d want to be sure that I can – and will – control it. I get that. But…”

“You have a handle on it,” Wanda finishes for her, no question to her voice.

Tessa’s lips purse, her face folding into a thoughtful expression for just a moment before she blows a long, deep breath out her nose and declares, “Yeah, I do.” She turns bodily to face the woman beside her, features relaxing as she explains, “I _know_ what to do… how to use them. It’s not like I’ve forgotten all the work we did. Or all the things the Professor showed me, the things I _used_ to be able to do. And, after everything that happened… after tapping into the Phoenix… Look, getting there… getting _here_ might’ve been really fucking shitty. It might’ve sucked. It might’ve almost killed me. The torture. The implant that boosted my MGH. The… rage that set everything off. But now I _know_. You know?”

Wanda nods simply, an easy agreement. “I _do_ know.”

“It’s like.. it’s like I’ve accepted them,” she goes on, picking up a steady rambling pace. “My powers, I mean. It’s like my mind and body both have accepted them. Just like Professor X told me I needed to do. Just like _you_ told me to do. And now… now, I think I’m… good. Yeah. I’m good.” She pauses just long enough to pull in a replenishing breath. “I mean. Have I tried everything out? No. Of course not! I haven’t tried to… to… rip anyone apart. I mean, not recently. But I _know_ … you know? I just know that it’s all still there. Even without the excess MGH… my abilities are the same. I…”

“Tessa, stop,” Wanda interrupts, holding up a stilling hand and shaking her head as she chuckles lightly. “I believe you.”

She nods firmly, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Then, raising a rather mischievous brow, she hums out playfully “You know… even though I don’t feel like I need you to _help_ me, we could still… try some stuff.”

“What did you have in mind?” she asks, eyes positively sparkling with mirthful anticipation.

“I don’t know,” she says, an impish grin sliding over her face, the playful expression matching Wanda’s perfectly. “But I _feel_ like I can do more. If you’re willing to… see?”

“A _powers session_ ,” she intones almost dreamily. “Just like the good old days, huh?” She rises from the bench and sends a quick wink Tessa’s way, along with a hand to help haul her up. “Let’s do it,” she declares cheerily as the two begin their walk back to the palace, both grinning slyly as they loop arms. “Let’s _play_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a while to update... many apologies! But here we have a nice little slice of back-in-the-day to help everyone see how... well, _everyone_ got to where they are. Up next, the final showdown at that fateful battle in Wakanda! As always, any comments are simply _adored_. Thanks for reading!


	5. Mother

_Wakanda. In the midst of battle:_

With her own comm device burnt out – and left as a scorched and bloody nugget somewhere out on the battlefield – Tessa is effectively out of the loop, left to do that _thing_ she so utterly detests… blindly follow.

Bucky refuses to say a word about what’s going on near the front, hurriedly moving them along towards the palace, eager to get them into the position dictated by Steve. But through it all he’s certainly _hearing_ things. She notices his finger pressing to the comm in his ear every so often as they race through the brush, stopping here and there for him take aim and pick off enemy stragglers. Oh, he’s getting updates on the goings-on behind them, that much she can plainly see. He’s simply refusing to share that information with her.

“We’re on it,” he says, finally responding to one of the voices in his ear as his heavy boots continue their steady trudge, leaving wide footprints for her to stumble through as he continues to tug her along.

That’s when she stops, a brief, bitter huff biting out of her.

Her hand is still in his, has been for the past several minutes as he’s led her away from the action in something akin to barely controlled panic. Her slower – non-super-serum-laced – pace had already been seeming to annoy him, and this full-on stop in the middle of a thorny clump of brush has him positively incensed.

“What are we _on_?” she asks, voice coming out a bit ragged and out of breath. He frowns pointedly, brow furrowing as he stares at her as though she’d grown an extra head. As though stopping dead in the middle of their mission was somehow akin to that. “What are they saying?”

He shakes his head, anger and annoyance melting from his face as he releases a tight breath. He gives her a firm tug, forcing her to once again fall in line behind him. “Vision’s down here,” he mutters, voice a low growl. “Steve’s on his way. So’s Wanda. But we might be closer.”

Her eyes blow wide, feet tripping over one another and sending her colliding with Bucky’s shoulder. _Vision’s on the field? Why? Did they get the stone out? Is it destroyed? Why isn’t Wanda with him?_ But there’s no time to voice any of her questions or concerns, her husband simply righting her, without so much as a glance in her direction, and picking up the pace as they race forward.

As it turns out, Steve _does_ manage to get to Vision first, not that Bucky or Tessa realize this as they’re too preoccupied with continuing to pick their way through the thick underbrush, attempting to keep their approach concealed as they make their way forward. But in typical Captain America fashion – because though his suit might be faded, his resolve remains vibrant – Steve leaps headlong into the fight. Fighting not just _for_ Vision, but _with_ him, the two defeating one of the alien generals before turning in wild, breathless circles to assess where to go from here.

Wanda arrives mere moments later, just in time for Vision to still and stiffen, a sudden _sense_ rippling through him. Tessa feels it to. As she and Bucky break through a copse of trees, spotting their friends – finally – across the small clearing, a new and different and… _intense_ energy gathers in the air around them. She drops his hand, stopping in her tracks and pulling in a long, acrid tasting breath as a heady breeze blows past them, _through_ them, a change playing in the air. And an odd purple cloud coalesces.

A giant beast of a man emerges from the oddly tinted air. Whatever a _Thanos_ might look like, _yes_ , that was it. Bucky cocks his head slowly, gauging her reaction from the corner of his eye while working to suss out their surroundings. He reaches back and takes hold of her wrist, tugging her close and tucking her behind him.

From the other side of the clearing, Steve jumps up and races toward the giant, his sudden, brazen action sending a swift trill of panic through Bucky, one intense enough that Tessa gets a hit as it sloughs off of him. The two watch in horror – and awe – as Thanos bends reality to his will, walking right through the Captain – and every other attacking soldier – on his way to Vision and Wanda. On his way to the final stone.

“No,” Tessa mutters vaguely as she feels Bucky’s hand slip away.

He steps forward, aiming his rifle high. “Help them,” he spits out, an order without preface nor conclusion. He doesn’t even turn back to look at her, instead emerging from the trees, already firing towards the alien as he advances.

She turns away, refusing to watch what she knows is a futile attempt at stopping something far greater than them. But stopping this isn’t really their mission now. It’s _hers_. They simply need to slow him down, do their best to keep him away from Vision. Away from that final stone that could spark the end of life as they know it.

Tessa opens herself up, seeks out Wanda’s energy, and finds it immediately.

It’s _strong_. And bright and powerful. And filled with not only zeal, not only a righteous surety, but also with grief and regret and a deep, scalding pain. She knows what’s happening, what’s about to happen. Though the two lovers are still so far away, curled around each other so that she can make neither heads nor tails of what either is doing as she slinks towards them, working to remain hidden along the tree line. She _knows_ that her friend is readying herself to propel all of her power and might towards the stone in Vision’s head. To destroy it. To destroy _him_.

She watches as Wanda rises, red beams of light – of pure, astounding energy – pulsing from her palms. One is directed at the stone in Vision’s head, boring into it, cracking and breaking it apart. The other is being sent towards Thanos – already here, not slowed in the least by the others. But Wanda is holding him effectively at bay, her power – and her _love_ – pressing him back.

Tessa bolts forward, eager to take on this threat that her righteous anger and stubborn pride now tell her she can assuredly defeat. Eager to lift the burden from Wanda’s shoulders in whatever way she can. But she makes it barely one step closer before the mind stone is shattered, sending out a burst of energy that blows them all back. Wanda’s love for the android – in that precise moment – also blowing apart and mutating into a powerful anguish that hits Tessa equally as hard.

She collides with a tree, the impact forcing the air from her lungs. She can’t move, stunned into submission for what feels like forever, despite being no more than seconds. But time functions very differently when the stakes are so high. Time… “is no thing at all,” she hears Thanos say, his deep, rough voice cleaving into the space around them

She pulls in a breath – finally – and stares wide eyed as the giant alien thrusts forward a hand – encased in a bejeweled, golden gauntlet – and… _rewinds_. The events of the last minute and a half, unfold in reverse, time skipping rapidly back until Vision is whole again. Thanos grabs him by the neck. Tessa rises before awkwardly faltering. Wanda _screams_. And then the stone is casually – easily – plucked from her friend’s head, his lifeless, robotic body dropping back to the earth in a heap the instant Thanos is done with him.

Every bit of Wanda’s horror-stricken energy slams into her, far too powerful for her walls to keep out. It floods her body, her senses, sparking thoughts, feelings… _memories_ that are not her own. Images of Wanda and Vision pop and crackle in her whirring mind. Soft, intimate imaginings of times she had never seen filtering to her like recollections. Like dreams. Emotion – _love_ – the precise kind of which she has never felt, burns through her, leaving a brand on her heart in the shape of a love that has never been and could never be her own.

Tessa screams, her own cry, sounding in unison with her wrecked friend for a lingering moment before she’s able to finally tuck away all of that grief and heartbreak and _loathing_ – all of that raw, unfiltered agony – right where it belongs. Wanda’s pain is the match that ignites her own power once again – that God-given ability nestled now tightly alongside the gains bestowed by the Phoenix – whilst also adding in a harsh and mighty glean from a woman now too broken to fight. A woman she _loves_. A woman she’d gladly call her sister. A woman brought to ruin by this _thing_ in front of her.

Her energy surges, propelling her forward. Red and blue light sparks from her hands, runs through her entire body, spitting off her limbs and swirling around her, encasing her in an odd, ethereal glow. A swift hit of pure _power_ rams into her the moment Thanos drops the tiny jewel into his gauntlet, it’s force binding in with the other stones in an impenetrable, indestructible, immutable sort of strength that sends a rush of doubt through her sizzling body.

But the man – alien creature – who’s hand fits within that glove is… vulnerable. She can _feel_ him, his energy trilling and loud and, _yes, so very powerful_. But not unbreakable. Not unbeatable. Not indestructible.

Before she even realizes what she’s doing – or what she _plans_ to do, if she even has any plans at all – she’s on him, throwing herself upon his back, her fiery fingers digging into the flesh of his upper arms, burning into him and grasping at the scalding chunks of steadily melting meat. The act elicits an animal-like shriek from him, and a wild thrashing that tosses her swiftly to the ground.

She twists and looks up, pulling herself onto her elbows as she lies crumpled before him. Her palms press into the earth – the potent, vibranium-infused earth of Wakanda – and she gathers even more energy, pulls it steadily until she’s so full, she fears she might explode.

_When a particularly massive star dies – I mean one that’s twenty times more massive than our sun – then the explosion can be… cataclysmic. That’s a supernova. And a supernova can outshine entire galaxies. It can put out more energy than you could ever dream possible._

Thanos stares down at her, his eyes wide and wild, as he asks, utterly befuddled, “What… are you?”

Her hands fly up, hundreds – thousands – of tiny sparks of energy all winding together as they burst forth from her fingers and pummel into him. A gasp falls from his oddly tinged lips as he stumbles back, allowing her the space needed to slowly pull herself to her feet. He stumbles again, entire body shuddering and catching as tiny rivulets and thick bolts alike continue to stab into his skin, burning through him.

“What…?” he repeats, unable to choke out any more than that single, terrified word.

She thinks of how to answer him – _What are you?_ – an oddly disaffected air allowing her to leisurely peruse her mind, each and every name she’s ever had – Anna, Nova, _Super_ nova, Tessa – rolling alongside her titles and identities – scientist, doctor, board member, X-Man, Avenger, sister, friend, wife… mother.

Something inside her jolts at the final word, like a rubber band snapping inside her head.

A wave of nausea rips through her as a sharp, icepick pain stabs into her skull. Her breath hitches, eyes close, and for a moment – just a mere fraction of moment – she disappears inside herself, a vivid memory – _or a dream?_ – playing in her mind’s eye.

A voice calls out to her, small and shrill… a child’s cry. An unabashed insistence burning through it as it calls out again. And again. Each time, a sloppily sputtered, _mommy!_

She pushes back, knowing without a doubt what this is… this odd and familiar _space_ she’s been pulled into. It’s a dream… one of _those_ dreams. One of the dreams sent from the little, X-gene-carrying ball of ever-blossoming energy growing within her womb.

She can’t be in this space right now. She can’t share in her daughter’s dreams, the foreboding – foretelling – aspect of this one hitting her, not for the first time, as being all too real.

But _this_ is real. Right now. Taking this monster down. Ending him. Eliminating this threat. _This is for you too,_ she thinks, her own voice echoing shrilly in her head as a shout aimed at the interloping presence of a child she’s yet to even meet.

She finally stomps out the echoing cry, opening her eyes to see Thanos still standing and shuddering before her. _This is real_ , she tells herself – feels the need to tell herself. Because unlike every other time she’s jolted awake from these little spells, right now she still feels strangely… absent.

She pulls in a tight breath and shoves the doubts away. Her face begins to split with fire, red-rimmed eyes going glassy as she works to finish the task at hand. Yet, through it all, everything remains oddly hazy and indistinct… like a waking dream. A nightmare.

The child’s cries return, blasting through the thick hum buzzing within her head. Tessa screams to drown it out, a wild, vicious sound that carries with it the weight of work yet to be done. She screams and steps forward, her hands mere inches from Thanos’ steadily shaking body.

He’s close. So close. She can feel the energy swelling within him, boiling and grinding and splitting him apart. From the corner of her eye, she sees a blue bolt of electricity – a burning light not her own – surge through the sky towards them. And she grasps onto it, pulling the energy from the air – _Thor_ , she recognizes immediately – and transmuting it within before shoving it back out and into Thanos.

It’s the final blow.

His giant body splits apart, blood and flesh and sinew exploding into the oddly motionless air, the heavy gauntlet falling to the ground beside her. Thor’s blue bolts continue their drive, raining through the sky. Her eyes tick away for a fraction of a second, down to the colorful stones by her feet, a curious sheen encasing the jewels. She’s… mesmerized. Enchanted. Utterly distracted. So much so that she doesn’t even see the axe splitting through the cloud of purple blood and macerated tissue, hurtling towards her.

The breath is knocked from her lungs. A thick and remorseful, “Oh. Oh… no,” sounding vaguely in her periphery. Her gaze ticks up, returning ahead to find the god of thunder now before her. “No,” slipping from him in a soft, horrified whisper as he looks down into the small space between them. “I… I thought…” he goes on, stumbling back, wide eyes still trained on her chest.

Tessa glances down, every movement feeling oddly slow and weighted, like she’s now moving through a world made of honey. She looks down and sees Thor’s shiny new axe cleaved into her body.

“I thought,” he stutters again, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he reluctantly moves closer, his hands up in a sort of placating gesture. “I thought… Thanos…”

And, yes, she understands. He thought that Thanos was still… here. He thought the axe would be embedded in _him_. He didn’t have time to stop the weapon from tumbling through the cloud of blood and flesh that she – without a moment’s notice – wrought. He never even saw her standing there, so well hidden… at first by the hulking villain, and then by that heinous veil of destruction. 

She opens her mouth to speak, to tell him that she knows, understands. To relay the thoughts still easily flowing in her mind, not slowed in the least by what she’s certain is her rapidly dying body. But the moment her lips part, only thick, warm blood flows out, trickling to the scorched earth, blending seamlessly in with all of the surrounding carnage.

Her knees buckle and she drops, someone taking hold of her arm to ease her fall.

_Wanda_ , she thinks, unsure quite how she knows, as her vision blurs and darkens around the edges, her head wobbling listlessly atop her shoulders, unable to turn. “Tessa,” she hears her friend say, tears encasing her name. “Tessa?”

_Yes,_ she thinks vaguely, recalling Thanos’ question from mere moments ago. _Yes, that’s who I am…_ what _I am._

She blinks once. Twice. And then she’s outside her body, watching the scene through an entirely new lens. It’s rather peculiar, she can’t help but think. She’s faced death before, been tugged away from this world by it on more than one occasion. And _never_ has it felt quite like this.

There is no _feeling_ at all, in fact. No sense of the energies around her, the ones she knows by heart, can feel from miles away… could feel even as she spun out to nothing after drowning in that trunk. After tearing apart Sublime. That sixth sense she’s known all her life is strangely, inexplicably absent.

Into the narrow frame, Bucky stumbles forward, dropping to his knees by her side, his gloved hands hovering tentatively over her body – her body, which she now sees, is split nearly in half. He speaks, she can see his lips move. But she cannot hear a thing he says. He crumples heavily around her, grabbing her face and wrenching it towards him, shouting words lost to her ears. His hands slide down to her shoulders, shaking and jostling her lifeless frame, gripping and tugging and pulling at her likely now cold flesh. He weeps, that’s plain to see, though still the sounds are nonexistent. He buries his face in her blood-stained neck and _weeps_ … shudders and sobs and reels.

His pain must be unbearable. Yet, she cannot _feel_ any of it.

She watches in a hazy state of awe as her husband continues to openly wail. As her friends – family – converge around her. As strangers, bonded through nothing more than battle, stare blankly on.

But still, she feels… nothing. Until, _mommy!_ sounds once more, a desperate call that tugs at her heart in a way nothing else could, and has her spinning in circles, wide eyes frantically searching for the despairing sound.

The scene before her begins to fade, edges blackening and crumbling away like burning paper.

_Mommy!_

Her hand drops to her middle, fingertips pressing into the material of her suit, desperate to _feel_ something within. That vibrant, familiar energy that everyday grows a little bit brighter and rounder, morphing into something more its own – less a reflection of her, less a whisper of Bucky – and more _her_ own.

_Mommy… don’t let me die…_

Her eyes pinch tightly shut and she swiftly tumbles into the dark… _through_ the dark. The taste of blood still sits on her tongue. Blood that’s her own. Blood that’s her daughter’s too… her _baby’s_.

_Don’t… die…_

She shuts out the voice, shuts out the thick and frightful dark. She ignores the coppery tinge in her mouth and the odd absence of others’ energy. And then, all at once, that piercing pain returns to split her skull.

Her eyes shoot open, a sudden breath thrusting from deep within in her lungs, stuttering out of her as though it had been trapped for so very, very long. She tries to regain focus, the throbbing, stabbing pain in her head slowly dissipating and leaving that unbearably loud hum in its wake. She sees her hands in front of her, glowing with pure power, forcing fire and torment into a giant, purple being writhing before her.

_Time is no thing at all._

From inside, she feels the slightest swell of energy, that perfect ribbon of Bucky’s life force – his _soul_ – wrapped neatly around a portion of her own. _Please, mommy_ , vibrates through her mind in perfect harmony with the deafening hum. _Please_.

Tears begin to gather in her eyes, turning swiftly to steam in the bright, red orbs. The few salty droplets that manage to fall, tumble and slip into the fiery fissures popping open on her face.

_Please._

A bolt of bright blue lightening rips through the sky, buzzing the air. Then another.

_Oh… oh, no… I… I thought…_

She shuts her eyes, expecting darkness, but seeing instead glowing swaths of anguish painted on her lids. Vivid memories of something yet to be. Her husband clinging to her bloodied body. Her friends collapsing to the dirt in agony around her. The tiniest tendril of that oh-so-perfect spark of energy slipping out of her alongside the blood trickling from her lips, gliding for a moment on the air before dissolving away to nothing.

“No,” she mutters, so softly she’s not even sure it’s truly uttered at all. “No.”

And she pulls back the tendrils of power, releasing her hold on the beast before her, regretfully snuffing out the blazing fire within.


	6. Little Bird

_Wakanda, mere days ago:_

Mornings had been rough lately, streams of light from the rising sun peeking through the window long before her tired body is ready to greet the day, the brilliant orange hues setting her stomach to clench and roil in bitter anticipation. Most days, she rolls out of bed with a slow groan, hoping to make it to the bathroom before the full force of nausea hits, only to end up racing in a flourish the moment she leaves the small air conditioned bedroom, the Wakandan heat prickling her senses to make this _sickness_ that much more unbearable.

A typical morning meant violently emptying her stomach into the toilet down the hall, her husband at her back – only half awake himself – holding her hair and trailing a gentle, cooling touch down the back of her neck with his blissfully cold vibranium fingertips.

But today, for the first time in _weeks_ , the swiftly rising sun seemed to herald little more than a slow and languid wakening, Tessa and Bucky both stirring and stretching and shifting, leisurely curling round one another, just as they had before this new phase of life began.

For an hour or more, she’d been – gratefully, blessedly – slipping in and out of that splendid sort of sleep that only early mornings can bestow… the kind that had been eluding her for so damn long now. Bucky feels it too, the serene pull of respite that they both know is about to become increasingly rare, a new disruption to their life lingering on the horizon.

But today, there’s no disruption at all. No rush to rise – _I’ll take care of the goats later_ , he whispers into her ear before sliding his way down the sheets – and no sickness churning within.

Today is… easy.

The smallest, softest sigh slips past her lips as she shifts her hips beneath him. “You’re spending an awful lot of time down there,” she mutters, voice slow and deep with near sleep.

Bucky tugs her closer, right hand splayed over her hip, thumb tracing delicately along the tender flesh of her abdomen, and he looks up, propping his chin on her middle as he aims those dazzling blue eyes her way. “Never heard you complain about me hanging out down here before,” he intones lightly before wiggling his eyebrows and lowering his lips to her stomach.

“Stop it,” she laughs, squirming beneath him, sliding far enough down the bed that the back of her head flops off the pillow entirely. “Tickles,” comes out in a barely there murmur as her fingers move down to thread idly through his thick, dark hair.

He turns his head, laying his cheek once again atop her still-flat abdomen, staring up at her in a way that could only be described as painfully adoring. “I love you,” he announces, exhaling the words out to her just as easily as if they were air.

The corner of her mouth quirks up, a single brow following it in an incredulous raise. “Are you sure it’s _me_ that you love? Because I don’t feel like you’re really paying much attention to _me_ at all.”

His face twists, forehead crinkling. “She is you,” he says plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Tessa lets out a small groan, her hips twisting a bit again before his hands settle her back into the sheets, holding her in place.

“Stop distracting me,” he tells her, tone chiding but eyes gleaming as he presses himself closer, head angling a bit at her center. “I’m trying to listen to my baby girl.”

“Yeah, sure,” she sighs out dramatically. “I’ll bet she’s talking up a storm. She’s like the size of a freakin’ _kumquat_.”

“I don't even know what that is,” he murmurs, completely unfazed.

She gives him a playful shove, the heat from his body starting to get to her, sheets sticking to her naked thighs. “It’s a fruit. And much like your _baby girl_ ,” she mutters with a harrumph, “it doesn’t speak.”

He rolls his eyes and lets out an almost irritated sigh. “I’m listening to her _move_ ,” he tells her, an air of absolute _duh_ coating the statement.

She gives his hair a short tug. “You are not.”

“Am too,” he argues, raising a brow – but never moving his ear from her center. “Super hearing, remember?”

Now Tessa’s the one to roll her eyes, shifting again, eager to move, annoyance at being held prisoner in her own bed beginning to swell. “It’s probably just her heartbeat.”

He raises his head and gives her a disappointed look. “I know what her heartbeat sounds like,” he says blandly before lowering himself back down. “Thrums like crazy. Like you when you try to run.”

She gives him a little shove. “What do you mean _try_ to run? Is that a crack about my perfectly acceptable _human_ speed. Because I will have you know – ”

“You used to run cross-country,” he interrupts blithely. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

A slight frown pulls across her face, stare focusing on the ceiling above for a long, silent moment before she pulls herself up onto her elbows. Looking down at him – so content and relaxed as he rests with his ear pressed to her middle – she almost scowls, brows tugging tightly together. “You can really hear her _move_?”

The widest, brightest smile flashes – along with a light laugh as he takes note of the concern belying her crumpled countenance. “Yeah. Does that freak you out?”

“Kinda,” slips out of her, almost a whisper, as she nervously pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. He issues out another short chuckle, and she flops back to the bed. “Reminds me of _Alien_ ,” she says, throwing her forearm dramatically over her eyes. “Like I don’t have enough nightmares already.”

Bucky pulls away from her belly and slowly sidles up alongside her, his right hand raking up beneath her loose T-shirt and along her ribs as he goes. “Nightmares, huh? I thought that was the kind of thing we were supposed _talk about_ ,” he murmurs into her neck, both arms wrapping loosely around her torso as he snuggles in close. A chaste but lingering kiss is pressed to her skin, the slightest hint of vanilla – a taste, a smell – hitting his senses, enduring on his lips even as he pulls away. “Wasn’t that the deal?”

It had, in fact, become a _deal_. Yes. A deal made not long after they first came to Wakanda, as misery began spilling from the seams of their outwardly serene new existence, both of them becoming instantly haunted by lifetimes of peril the moment the undeniable safety of their new home wrapped tightly around them.

Torture, death, destruction… _blood_. It all loomed in Tessa’s periphery, distracting nearly every waking minute and drowning her as she slept. And _worry_ … worry about her friends and family – and mutantkind. Grief over the loss of a home, a place she actually felt she belonged. Guilt over so many of her loved ones having their homes taken from them, being sent to live on the run… because of their involvement with her. Agitation at being kept here – being told she had to _recover_ , being told she had to hide away – while the world continued to burn around them. It all ate away at her like a wolf gnawing and breaking and suckling upon a bone, desperate for the marrow.

And Bucky? His cracks took longer to show, a superficial façade blooming as he put his all into moving on, moving forward, building a new life… and in so doing, burying the old. He longed to shut out the pain of their past, to forget the achingly familiar sight of his wife wasting away in front of him thanks to months of torture. The guilt over being unable to find her, save her. The grief brought on by unwittingly playing a part in her disappearance, _allowing_ someone from his team to harm her. The awful images of his beautiful girl – pushed to the brink – tearing people apart, laying waste to _lives_ like they were nothing. The agonizing memories of her teetering towards death as his arms wrapped tightly around her slight frame… waiting.

But the more he tried to shove it all away, the more it _pushed_ , finally spilling out from the dark depths of his mind as he slept. He too dreamt of torture and blood, all that Tessa had been through awakening old memories – sorrows and horrors – within him as well, forcing his wandering mind back to terrible times and awful places. Hydra. The cold, bitter _nothingness_ of Siberia that seeped into his bones. The empty eyes of his handlers as they beat him, berated him, _trained_ him. The hollow space within his own chest that grew a little deeper, a little wider each and every time he heard them utter, _Soldat_.

On and on this went. For weeks. Months. So much of their time spent suffering. Alone. Despite being together, living together, sleeping and dreaming side by side, they each suffered apart and alone. Each stubbornly refusing to burden the other with their obvious torment. On it went… until they had no choice but to confront the trauma that was furtively tearing them apart.

Until a deal was made.

Tessa lets out a small hiss, a sigh of capitulation. “I’m… stressed,” she tells him weakly, still hiding beneath her arm.

He pulls back a bit and exhales languidly, reaches out and tenderly runs the pad of his flesh thumb over her dramatically pouting bottom lip. “Don’t want that,” he says with a frown of his own.

She shakes her head and huffs out a breath, finally pulls her arm away and turns onto her side to gaze somberly at him. Her left hand falls to his cheek, heavily stubbled, the beard coming and going seemingly on a whim. Though she knows the truth, his ongoing scheme to alternately annoy her with whiskered kisses and then delight her with long-awaited clean-shaven snuggles an ill-kept secret at best. And she strokes her thumb down the length of his face, bringing it to rest in the divot of his chin. Her eyes fall down to stare briefly at the oh-so-familiar dimple, a soft sigh of a declaration tumbling out of her. “I hope she gets this.”

A quick hit of anxious energy blows through her, drawing her eyes back up to his, to see them narrow worriedly at her. “Why are you stressed, baby?” he asks simply. As though there might actually be a simple response.

She shrugs, gaze falling into the small space between them. Outside, the sun has fully risen, the sounds of chirping birds and naying goats filtering in through the half-open window. A cat jumps onto the bed, begins rubbing around their ankles, purring thickly. But she doesn’t look down to see if it’s Eddie or Phoebe. She doesn’t really look anywhere at all, hazy images spilled out in dreams reflecting back at her on the starched white sheets.

Bucky gives her a tiny jostle with his vibranium hand, cupped low around her hip. “What have you been dreaming about?” he tries instead, taking in her absent stare.

Another shrug, though this time she swallows thickly and ticks her eyes up to meet his. “They’re just… they’ve been… I don’t know… weird. Not nightmares, really. Just… I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he issues out with a curious lilt. “What happens in them?”

She licks her lips, eyes darting away briefly, crease deepening in her forehead as she thinks. Thinks of what precisely to say. Of how to explain. “Sometimes… I see her,” she murmurs finally, the words sounding uncertain, almost iniquitous, even to her own ears. “As a baby. As a little girl.” She shifts uncomfortably, letting out a small, agitated groan. And he tightens his hold on her, brings his flesh hand up to stroke soothing lines down her back.

“You see _her_?” he asks, voice a bit hesitant. “Our baby?”

She nods into him, ducking her face and burying it in the crook of his neck. “It’s never anything… bad. Never really anything at all. I’m rocking her at night. Or… I’m watching her color at a table. Or…” Her voice fades off into nothing, other words… other _dreams_ sitting low in her throat, clamoring to rise as she effortfully swallows them back down.

“Sounds nice,” he offers simply, the heat from his breath – from his body, so close – setting her nerve endings aflame.

But she shakes her head, still choking on the truth. A deep tremble builds within her chest, spills out to quake Bucky’s gripping arms. “It doesn’t _feel_ nice.” Her tired eyes blink shut, a barrage of simple, serene images playing on the backs of her lids. Simple, yet… “It’s like… there’s nothing _wrong_ … nothing I can see. But…” She pulls back just a bit, opens hooded eyes to stare helplessly up at him. “It all feels wrong.”

He’s silent for a long moment as he watches her closely, thinks on what to say. A single thumb begins to stroke along her shoulder blade, his hand beneath her shirt feeling sticky and hot, and… unwelcome. She twitches awkwardly, his thumb stilling as a soft sigh spills from his chest. “Just nerves,” he mutters then, no intonation of a question, but a lack of surety all the same. Another sigh falls as he tucks her in close, peeling his sweaty hand from her skin and instead draping his arm heavily over her hip. “I’m scared too,” he breathes into her hair, laying a lingering kiss to her crown. “Scared I’ll screw something up. Scared I might… hurt her.”

She shifts in his grasp, head shaking fluidly back and forth. “You wouldn’t. You won’t.”

He rests his chin in her hair, reaches up to begin again the slow, soft stroke up and down her spine. “It’ll be okay, baby,” he whispers, the oft-repeated words laying out promises even he knows are brittle and frail. “It’ll all be okay.”

The anxious worry – the tattered fear – that sloughs off of him, sounding in his voice, pulsating through his fingertips, is enough to make Tessa wish she hadn’t said a word. These dreams – these oddly _portending_ dreams, which she somehow _knows_ are… real – had been invading her sleep for the last several weeks, playing with her subconscious mind, tangling in with her own thoughts and fears and doubts.

But they are not _her_ dreams. Not really. She could tell from the very first one… a tender scene of mother and baby – of Tessa and her daughter – rocking gently in an unfamiliar room, soft yellow light spilling out over a pale crib, a mobile littered with glittering stars, a floppy stuffed bunny hunched by the tiny, bunched-up fleece blanket, light from her other side – from the hall – partially blocked by broad shoulders lingering in the doorway. She could tell then that this dream – and those that were to follow – despite playing out in vivid detail on the backs of her lids, were not her own.

Because the thoughts in her head were so simple and serene, the feelings no more complex than _loved, safe, sated_. She could almost taste the delicate sweetness of milk on her tongue, could taste it despite seeing that the liquid barely beaded not on her own lips, but on those of the little girl in her arms, so exquisitely nursing at her breast.

It wasn’t unheard of, she’d reasoned in the dark throes of night as her heart beat wildly, sweat soaking the sheets wrapped around her after startling awake. Many mutants might not display a hint of power until they begin to approach adulthood. But she herself couldn’t remember a time without her abilities. Perhaps it would be the same for her daughter. Perhaps she was merely getting a taste of the powers already building within that precious little seed.

Dreams. Foretelling, perhaps even foreboding. The _gift_ of precognition. The plight of knowing the future. The awful burden of seeing what was to come. And if it had already begun – before her body had even been fully formed, before she had even taken her very first breath – how intense and extreme might that power grow to be?

There was something about it all that stung her into paralysis, that first time Tessa woke _knowing_. It left her unable to admit the truth. Unable to acknowledge that it was – _is_ – the truth at all. _It’s too much for a baby_ , she told herself then, fingers reaching down to idly stroke the sweaty flesh of her abdomen. _It’s too great a burden_ , she repeated to her sleep-starved self each and every night she woke from such a dream, jolting back to her own reality with a start and a muffled cry.

She would turn then, and stare longingly at the peacefully sleeping man beside her. Take in the smooth plane of his calm and placid face… divested of nightmares, seemingly free from the memories and _realities_ that had tortured him for longer than she’d even been alive. She would stare at her finally settled – finally _at-peace_ – husband and say again, lips curling around the silent words as the trickled out into the cold dark of night, _too great a burden_.

But now it’s morning, so different from the _night_ , when all those doubts come out to play. Sleep. Lazy, languid, sunrise sleep feeling like a warm and welcoming breeze blowing across her still-trembling body. The promise of sleep – light and airy and _dreamless_ – seems but a breath away as she lays here… Tessa and their baby both laying _here_ in Bucky’s arms. Safe, if only for today.

“What does she sound like?” she asks, voice light, an almost forced optimism rushing through it.

He knows what she’s doing, clunkily changing the subject to something… brighter. But he’s ready for the shift. A crooked smile blooms across his face as he presses a soft kiss into her hair. “Sounds like… a little flutter.”

“Hm,” she breathes out, eyes drifting shut, nothing but a tranquil, faded image of the partially open window playing on her lids. “Like a little bird?”

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, tugging her close as her breathing begins to deepen, body growing heavy in his grip. “Just like a little bird.”


	7. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof... yeah, this one is rough... mucho angst. I'd apologize, but... nah.

_Wakanda… after:_

She wakes with a start. Again. Every night, every morning, every afternoon even, it’s the same. She closes her eyes – unwillingly, either her exhausted body or the sedative finally forced upon her compelling her to do so – and she sees it all play out. Over and over and over again.

She’s winning, pulling Thanos apart, the tingle and buzz of pure, unrelenting energy radiating out from her core. Then the vision brings it all to a screaming halt. That _dream_ – a waking dream of success and failure – that ends with an explosion of purplish sinew, leading to a burst of her own bright red blood.

But it’s the screams – the far-off voice of a child she’d yet to even meet, lurching at her through the thick veil of reverie – that truly still her hand and change the trajectory of the world. Of everyone and everything in their world.

It’s an apparition – little more – that lets him win. And how she wishes he knew that truth… wishes she had the strength and ability to rub in his face that he was _defeated_ , and his eventual victory was a fluke. A mistake. A swift and sudden error in judgement. Nothing more.

How she wishes she could go back in time and do it all over again. Do it differently. Do it _right_.

She was winning, pulling that monster apart. Until her baby called out to her – _Mommy! Please! Don’t let me die!_ – and, like a fool, she listened.

It’s what happens just after – what _happened_ – that jerks her awake each and every time. She gasps and sputters, releases her hold, feels her energy – that fiery beast within – swell and smolder as she painstakingly holds it all in place. _Wait_ , she tells herself – tells the crying child still echoing in her head. _It’s okay_ , she thinks, as she retracts the pulsing from her fingertips. _Just wait._

It’s a breath of a moment, that’s all it takes for him to begin to recover the power inside his hefty frame. But it’s too late. _Too late_ , she thinks, the smallest breath of relief edging from her lungs as Thor’s mighty axe spins through the bright blue sky and imbeds in him. Just as intended. Just as her little girl had predicted. A swift beam of pride washes over her, exhausted but gratified smile ticking her lips ever so slightly upward. But it’s fleeting.

The smile. The relief. The pride. It all wraps around Tessa’s neck, coiling tight, choking off the air.

Because he doesn’t fall.

_You should’ve gone for the head_.

She reaches forward, prepares to unleash whatever fire remains inside. And then…

_Snap_.

It pulls her from the dream every time, wakes her from the memory to leave her lingering in a reality worse than any nightmare her mind could possibly conjure.

_Snap_.

The sound echoes in her ears as her eyes fly open, wild stare bouncing around the still-foreign hospital walls.

_Snap_.

A sort of tinnitus, a horrid noise that reverberates from within, made all the more loud and intense – _deafening_ – because of the new and unbearable silence that surrounds her.

_Snap_.

The last thing she heard – felt – before seeing her husband fade to ash before her, his strong, resilient body faltering, falling as he breathed out her name, reached desperately out for her. It ricochets throughout the cold clinic room – _snap, snap, snap_ – easily drowning out the rhythm on the heart monitor, the sounds of her own frantic breaths. The quiet of this new and empty world.

Each time it wakes her from one nightmare, only to throw her into the next.

She sits up in bed, blinks away the sleep, and sees – as though it were happening again right now, right in front of her – Bucky… as he splits into a coarse dust that pools in her palms, flutters away through her barely parted fingers, swirling about the room on an oddly absent breeze before getting sucked out the open hospital window. Gone. Never to return.

Slowly, that awful sound begins to fade – _snap_. And an echo of his voice lingers in its place, full of confusion and concern. Tinged with fear. And grief. It reverberates through her shifting, waking mind for several achingly long moments. Until it too withers and dies.

000

Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, this Tessa knows, has always known, better than most. Because she can _feel_ the truth to that scientific theorem. How strange, then, for her to have felt nothing at all when it occurred.

The moment the air blew thick with clouds of ash, spreading half the world across newly darkened skies, all of those traces she once knew so well had simply… disappeared, leaving behind not a single hint of the energy signatures she loved, the ones she could recognize as easily as her own face in the mirror. It was as though they had never even existed.

The only tinge of Bucky that remains – of her _Jamie_ – flickers from that spot deep, deep inside where their daughter lies. In the days immediately following, she often bristles at the thought, wishing that soft, tender flame would snuff out entirely, leave her to die alone and untethered, let her give into her grief. It’s a reminder – _she_ is a reminder – that all of this is her fault, her failing, her _choice_.

Other times, she craves that sense of him, pulls at that slightest thread that not only feels like _him_ , but like the two of them twined tenderly together, perfectly molded into this thing that – despite her grief and guilt and unabating shame – she loves so deeply and truly that she sacrificed half the world to save.

But of the others – Wanda and Vision, T’Challa and Shuri… Sam, _oh, God, Sam too?_ – she feels nothing. The world is eerily still and silent, nothing but the bereft energies of the half of humanity that remains cluttering her mind, pummeling her senses. She struggles to shut them out, the grief and confusion of _everyone_ , of _everything_ , needling like pinching, stabbing pricks to her heart.

But without that pain, there’s nothing whatsoever to feel. And the deafening silence and terrifying stasis, she all too quickly realizes, is the worst sensation of all.

000

For nearly three weeks after the Snap, Tessa stays in Wakanda.

She stays to recover, her energy tenuous at best after all that she’d put herself through. The unbearable grief and unimaginable guilt both compounding the exhaustion left in the wake of the battle. Healing from this _depletion_ proves to be more difficult than it had ever been before, what with such a miniscule amount of living energy to pull from. For days, her body works to make peace with this new, quiet world, her powers adjusting, energy coping in whatever way it can.

Once released from the hospital, she stays to mourn alongside the new friends who lay in tatters around her. Okoye and what few remain of the Dora Milaje. Atandwa, the kindhearted lab tech who always kept her coffee mug filled and regaled her with stories of his six children – all gone now – when she worked with Shuri in the lab. Queen Ramonda, a childless widow holding strong for what remains of her people in the light of day, sobbing and shouting curses at the moon in the night.

She stays to work in the lab, a request from the queen herself to _help._ To do whatever she can to encapsulate Shuri’s work, to translate the genius scribblings and beginnings of brilliant ideas into something that others might be able to comprehend and _use_. To transition the lab to the few remaining scientists who can – hopefully – manage the state-of-the-art facility.

Tessa stays. Just for a while. She agrees – due in no small part to the pleas of Natasha – to leave when the time is right. To return to New York, despite it no longer being her home. But really… _This place is only my home if he’s here. If he’s not, it’s just as empty as all the others._

And Steve stays with her. After Natasha and Rhodes, Bruce and Thor finally gather their wits and equipment and leave for New York, for the now painfully empty compound. Steve remains.

At first Tessa assumes it’s out of obligation – _He’d want me to be here with you_ , he argues back at her when she tells him to just go _._ But it doesn’t take long for her to realize that caring for her is merely pretense. Steve _can’t_ leave this place. Not yet. Not when he still sees the reflection of his best friend’s face – happy and unfettered and finally at peace – shining out from the vast Wakandan horizons. Not when the only place left to go is a cold, empty home where the rest of his friends and family should be, but simply… aren’t.

In those first few days, he hangs around the oddly vacant hospital with Tessa, sitting beside her bed for hours in indifferent silence. At night, he stays in her and Bucky’s home just outside the city, sleeping – if it could really be called that – on the sofa, easily capitulating to the confused and lonely cats when they curl up atop him.

The cats. Both Eddie and Phoebe survived, a _small_ miracle but one none the less. Delivering that news – to both Tessa and Natasha – was the only bit of _good_ he’d managed to eke out of those first weeks _after_.

Tessa refuses to return to the house, opting instead to stay in an empty wing of the palace once she’s finally released from the clinic. The cats come with her, but Steve does not. He – knowing that they’ll have to leave _eventually_ – takes it upon himself to begin the slow and arduous task of packing up their home… their life.

He makes arrangements with one of the neighbors to take the few remaining goats off their hands. He boxes up collectibles and framed photos, not that there’s much of that around what with them only having been here a year and a half or so.

He throws all of Tessa’s clothes into bags, along with a select few items of Bucky’s. An old black hoodie that he’d seen her wear more than a time or two. A few T-shirts that he suspects she sleeps in because they’re found tucked into a drawer alongside her… delicates. A maroon Henley that he knows is – _was_ – one of Bucky’s favorites, it being one of the only items with any color that he was apt to wear. A few other shirts that he notices hanging off the side of the hamper, each still smelling a bit of dirt and sweat and musk, pure _Bucky_ breaking through beneath. One of those shirts gets packed inside his own small duffel, a worn, gray memento of a friend once again lost to time.

His heart nearly breaks when he pulls down the sonogram image from the fridge, places it between the pages of a thick, heavy book of baby names that he finds sitting open on the kitchen counter… open to the As, as though that were only as far as they’d been able to get.

There are just a few other baby things that he finds littered about, each getting packed away into the same box, which he tapes up tighter than all the others. A stuffed goat toy that looks to be handmade. A pink onesie that has _Daddy’s Girl_ scrawled in wide cursive letters across the front. A package of tiny socks, each bearing perfectly stitched characters from _Winnie the Pooh_.

All of this, he packs into bags and boxes and stacks away for when they leave. All of this he does without uttering a word about it to Tessa, just bringing her the clothes and toiletries she needs as she spends her nights at the palace… and her days losing herself in preparing a lab not her own.

And then _eventually_ comes crashing in.

Natasha calls in a panic, in what is surely the middle of the night in New York, though it’s bright and early on an eerily beautiful morning in Wakanda. Tony is back, she tells him. He’d been returned alongside some sort of alien cyborg woman and a powerful _Earthling_ – as the talking raccoon had called her – who claims to be former Air Force. And a close personal friend of Nick Fury.

It’s crazy, strange, and unexpected news. Yet neither he nor Tessa – nor the rest of the world, really – have the ability to be surprised by much any more.

They’re not even surprised to find that Tony is already gone – taken home by Pepper to recover – by the time they arrive _._ Not taken aback in the least to hear that he had made a point of leaving before Steve and Tessa returned, told Bruce as much, saying he didn’t want to see either of them – _couldn’t_ see either of them – not now. Not when each and every one of them is painted over with guilt and sorrow.

Of course, the news of Tony’s departure is of little interest anyway, not compared to the other news they’re met with. The cyborg alien – a _friend_ of the racoon as it turns out – claims to know _exactly_ where to find Thanos. He’s still out there, just as they had all suspected, holed up on some distant planet that they didn’t have the technology to even know existed.

But now? Now, there’s a spaceship parked out on the lawn of the compound. And a racoon and a cobbled together alien robot woman who are able to fly it. And a superpowered, intergalactic _warrior_ – who keeps giving Tessa a suspicious sort of side eye – claiming she can lead the way.

So they go… set off for space. For justice, perhaps. Vengeance. A chance to _maybe_ right this unbearable wrong.

Just weeks ago, the thought of one day being able to hurtle through space, to visit distant planets, find other peoples, made Tessa’s breath catch and pulse quicken. But now – even as they rocket through the galaxy, through _time_ – it holds little more for her than a disaffected air, an almost wistful sort of wonder that, like everything else, feels hollow and false.

They arrive to find that Thanos had destroyed the stones. Devastating for the others. No surprise for Tessa. She can sense – the moment they dock at the strange, off-grid planet – that the power of the Infinity Stones is _not_ present. They’re gone. Along with Bucky. Wanda. Sam. Shuri. Vision. T’Challa. And all the others. Thanos himself is gone now as well, thanks to Thor’s – _finally_ – well-placed blow.

After – it’s all _after_ now, isn’t it? – there’s nothing left for them to do but return home, try to make do what little they now have. Or try to hide away and wait to die.

None of it surprises Tessa. She’s somehow known from the moment it happened that there would be no _saving_ any of them. Not the ones they lost, whose energy had flitted away on the wind as swiftly and carelessly as the ash their bodies had become.

Not Thor, who positively reeks of guilt and regret and defeat, a once staunch and proud _god_ laid to waste by a failure that – Tessa knows – isn’t even his own.

Not Natasha, who decides then and there to throw herself headlong into helping the world recover… and finding Clint at any cost.

Not Steve, who’s barely spoken to anyone at all since Thanos’ head rolled near his feet. He refuses to share the truth that Tessa feels spill off of him in thick, hot waves. Disappointment. Frustration. Regret. Because he had actually believed that they were going to find a way. And now he’s _certain_ that this is simply how it will forever be.

And not Tessa. Not her daughter. Both of whom are now destined to live in a world bereft of _his_ love. His touch. The deep tenor of his voice that she’s certain their child would easily recognize the moment she’s born. If only she’d ever be able to hear it.

No. This time, the Avengers – what’s left of them – won’t be _saving_ anyone at all.

Certain lodgings remain empty at the compound, will likely _always_ remain that way. But guestrooms are offered freely, easily, to new allies once the crestfallen bunch returns to Earth. This place that had once been _home_ , now sits dark and still. The halls echo with silence. And even those without Tessa’s ability to sense energy can feel that it is hollow. Depleted. Devoid.

“Go,” Steve tells her simply, once the tea that Natasha had insisted everyone partake of is cold and bitter in her hands. “Bruce and I put your stuff in your apartment. Go relax. Rest. You need it,” he says, voice stern and commanding as he dumps out the tea and walks her to her door.

“I’ve been resting,” she mutters blandly, still tasting chamomile on her tongue as he ushers her into the apartment she used to share with Bucky.

He lingers in the doorway, refusing to enter himself. “Just…” His face drops, head beginning a slow, methodical shake. “Just… shower and change. Maybe unpack some. And _sleep_ ,” he insists, begging her to do the things that the others all claim they’re going to do as well, everyone splitting off and making exhausted trails toward their quiet, separate rooms.

The first few, she can do. Maybe. But sleeping here, without him… that one’s off the table.

She tells Steve goodnight and languidly moves through this eerily familiar space. Everything looks to be just how they’d left it more than a year ago, down to a load of laundry still sitting in the dryer. Not exactly a shock. It had, after all, been Tony and Bruce who had swept in that night – after hearing what happened in Canada and realizing that she and Bucky could never safely return to the states – and packed up what they could. They were lucky they got some clean underwear and the cat with those two in charge.

She steps into the bedroom, glances at the two large duffels tossed atop the bed and lets out a deflating sigh before approaching. “Unpack,” she mutters to herself, speaking the directive out loud to remind herself what needs to be done, afraid she’ll just stand here in this empty _place_ all night if not given a clear objective.

She unzips the bags and casually dumps them onto the bed, covering the perfectly laid-out quilt – _I leave town for three weeks and you become the kind of guy who shops for quilts and tomatoes at the farmers market?_ – in heaps of clothing. And she stares, brow furrowed as she takes in the sight of khaki pants and cutoff shorts, mud-stained tank tops and old worn T-shirts – the wardrobe of a rural goat farmer – piled high on the bed once shared by a prestigious geneticist and her superhero husband.

It’s ridiculous, honestly. And if she had the ability to laugh anymore, a huge guffaw would spill out of her at this very moment. As it is, she simply scoffs and turns away, deciding this is good enough. It’s not as though she’s ever going to crawl back into that bed again anyway. Why shouldn’t it remain covered in the remnants of some other woman’s life?

She moves over to the closet, opens it almost warily, delicately thumbs through the rack of clothes, mostly cocktail dresses and business suits of hers – more remnants of yet _another_ woman’s life. Two lonely, perfectly tailored suits of his hang in the back, each worn but once despite her pleas for him to break them out more often.

And then… still in the clear plastic bag from the cleaners, she spies the new Army-issued uniform, the one gifted to him for that single, honorary night… that celebration that he adamantly refused – right up until the very last minute – to attend. It’s pressed and clean and… perfect. She reaches for it, indelicately tearing through the overwrap. Her fingers shake as they peel the deep blue jacket from the hanger, her arms idly winding into the oversize sleeves as she drapes it close. A small smile graces her face as she melts to the floor, huddling in the dark closet with her husband’s jacket choking up her arms, the collar pressing into her throat as she cradles it close and breathes in the memory.

Breathes in _Jamie_.

She can smell him here, though the scent is faded and peppered with a hint of staleness and dust. As though what remains of him is _old_. And nearly gone.

He doesn’t live here anymore. He doesn’t _live_ anymore.

But she does.

Her hand – buried deep inside the jacket – drops to her middle where the slightest swell had only just begun to take shape. Where their baby swims and stirs, still so small that she can’t even feel the tiny flutters. _Just like a little bird_.

_She_ lives.

And so Tessa must as well. She has no choice. She _must_ carry on.

And _that_ realization is the first thing that’s managed to surprise her in weeks. That sudden – equal parts terrible and joyous – insight sends a shock of astonishment that rocks through to her core and causes an abrupt, horrid wail to echo through the closet, only to be absorbed by the rack of useless clothes and bitterly craved memories.

She clings tighter to the jacket around her, tighter to _him_. And at the same time, curls up into a ball, folds herself protectively around that precious piece of him – no, of _them_ – that sits nestled in her core.

Tonight, she will surround herself in the things of _before_ , let the memories seep and soak into her skin so that they might become even more a part of her, a stain that can never wash out. And tomorrow – maybe the next day? – she’ll dive into the _after_ , where that burgeoning new life awaits.


	8. Honor and Desire

_New York… Before (two and a half years ago):_

“No.” The word falls from his mouth in a single, definitive syllable, accompanying a hard stare that echoes his response lest his friend fails to hear. “Absolutely not.”

“Buck,” Steve tries, aiming a disappointed glare his way. “C’mon. This could be good. Really good. And you know what? You deserve this.”

“That’s a shitty thing to say,” he shoots back. “Like me saying you deserve a punch to the gut.” It’s a decent retort, maybe not great, but Bucky hopes it’s enough to get his friend to see that he’s serious about not attending this ridiculous _thing_ – this bullshit _event_. But the moment he feels the smug, certain smirk stretch across his face, he sees Tessa creep in from the hall. And a low, disgruntled groan pulls from his chest as he realizes that this _discussion_ has only just begun.

Her head cocks curiously as she enters, ears obviously perked and attuned to the _private_ conversation that had been going on between the two men. “What does he deserve?” she asks, her voice ringing through the apartment and causing Steve to spin.

“Hey,” he breathes out with a grin. “You’re up.”

She sidesteps him to hobble into the kitchen, a still braced leg slowing her pace as she lets out a small _harrumph_. “Yeah,” sounds over the clatter of mugs as she stretches to reach up and pull one from the cabinet. “It’s morning, right?” she asks amid a bellowing yawn.

He sniggers as he steps into the kitchen doorway, looms there with his arms crossed and an amused brow raised. “It is,” he drawls out. “But it’s pretty early. For you anyway.” He watches as she pours herself a cup of coffee, her balance precarious at best. And his face slowly melts into a frown as he tosses a look over his shoulder at Bucky and asks – in a rather conspiratorial tone – “Shouldn’t she be using her crutches?”

Tessa snorts – low and irritated – as she dumps a heaping spoonful of sugar into her mug, never so much as glancing his way.

Bucky lets out a huff of his own, shaking his head and stating, “I gave up on that a few days ago. At least while she’s in the apartment. Trust me, pal, it’s a losing battle.”

“It’s bullshit is what it is,” she mutters, limping past the pair in the doorway – steaming mug in one hand and a banana in the other – on her way to the sofa. “Like a prisoner in my own home.”

Bucky raises a brow as he watches her flop onto the couch, coffee in her hand sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the mug. He gives her an assessing look, eyes roving her newly thin face, tired eyes, the leg that’s held together with metal and prayers. The motorcycle accident had been a couple of months ago, but the healing process – especially when coupled with the _healing_ that she’s only just begun with the Professor – was proving to be a long one.

He’d tried – at first – to keep her in the apartment, no matter how much she complained. He tried to convince her that she needed to relax, rest, take the time to heal. But the more he _tried_ , the more she pushed back, that oh-so-familiar petulant stubborn streak slamming into him at every turn. Frankly, he was sick and tired of it.

“We literally _just_ got back from vacation,” he says, impatience lacing his tone.

She takes a giant bite of the banana and shrugs. “Hardly,” she metes out, mouth full of fruit. She swallows thickly and turns to lean over the arm of the couch, peering at him with a raised brow. “ _Beaches_ mean vacation. Mountains, even. The Barton homestead, complete with three crazy kids do _not_ a vacation make.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Stark said you can go back to work – _with_ the crutches. No one’s holding you prisoner, doll.”

Another snort. Another shrug.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Steve starts, the wide, crooked smile pulling at his features once more as he steps over and drops down onto the couch beside her. She spins away from Bucky, carefully folding her good leg up beneath her as she faces him before settling in and sipping her coffee. “What I was telling Buck – ”

“Stop,” he barks out from behind. “She doesn’t need to know.”

She cranes her neck to look at him, takes in his pouty expression, his defensive stance with arms crossed tightly over his chest as he leans heavily in the kitchen doorway. He refuses to make eye contact with either of them, choosing instead to stare down at the floor, at the toe of his boot as he digs it into the hardwood like a sullen child. She rolls her eyes, still glaring at him over her shoulder. “Secrets, secrets are no fun,” she singsongs lamely before turning back to Steve. “You were saying.”

“Sam put together this charity event – or _helped_ put it together, I guess – for vets. And he wants us to go. Me and Bucky. To be _honored_.”

Her brows lift high as another sip of hot coffee slips past her lips. “Honored?” she asks, voice sounding equal parts incredulous and delighted.

He nods – “For our service.” – then shrugs. “Really, I think he just wants us to get up and talk. There aren’t too many World War II vets still around who are willing, or _able_ , to talk about their experiences.”

“There aren’t too many in this room either,” Bucky issues out tersely.

Steve barely gifts the sullen man with a glance. “There are going to be people speaking about their experiences in different wars and conflicts, their time in different places – Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan. He thought it’d be good for veterans of our generation to be represented too. And really, well, the way he put it… he said he thinks it’d be good for people to hear that even Captain America and Sergeant Bucky Barnes have dealt with – or still deal with – the same kinds of things that all vets do.”

“Okay,” she mutters, contemplative expression rolling over her face. “But… are you okay with that? With talking about it, I mean?” He lets out a small, tight breath, his bright blue eyes dulling a bit around the edges. “Steve, I know how hard it was for you to even open up to _me_ about your experiences. And I’m 100% sure you didn’t tell me everything.”

His gaze drops to his lap, a slight, self-deprecating smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. “I’ve never told anybody _everything_.”

She reaches out and threads her fingers with his. “And you never have to. If you don’t want to.”

He looks back up at her. “I don’t think Sam’s expecting much. Just… _that_ , I think. Just mention that, even with the people closest to us, it’s still hard to share… hard to talk about. This event, it isn’t about glorifying anything we did. It’s just about admitting that we did things that were hard. And admitting that it’s still hard today.”

She smiles, wide and true and _proud_. “Okay,” falls from her lips again just before a quick sigh. “I just know that others have come to you before, asked you to speak, said they wanted to _honor_ you…”

He lets out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I know. And I always told them _no_. But…” His eyes ping up over her shoulder towards Bucky and connect with his still-somber gaze for a moment before he finishes with, “This time, it feels right.”

She gives a firm nod and turns to look at the man still looming by the doorway. “But you’re not comfortable with it?” His head moves in a slight, slow shake, almost imperceptible.

“He doesn’t have to speak,” Steve says, voice strong and sincere. “I think… I think it’d be good if he did. I think it could help others. And himself. But he doesn’t have to. Sam just wants him there anyway – both of us. He just wants our service to be acknowledged. Whether we decide to say anything or not.”

Bucky looks up with a tired expression. “There’s an exhibit at the Smithsonian about us, Steve. We’ve been _acknowledged_.”

“Has anyone ever said anything to _you_?” he asks pointedly. “Has anyone ever actually told _you_ that what you did was important? That you were important?”

Again, his eyes drop to the floor, a deep red blush blooming along his cheeks. _Once_ , he thinks, but dares not say. _One time, a woman on the street and her little boy thanked me_.

“You never got the ticker tape parade,” he goes on. “You never got guys offering you jobs just because you came home in a uniform. Hell, Buck, you never even got to come home.”

He shrugs. “Don’t need a parade. Don’t need a thank you.”

“It’s not about what you _need_ ,” Steve intones almost reproachfully. “Bucky, you _deserve_ it.”

He lets out a long sigh – almost a disgruntled moan – and trains a warning stare on the man. “It was seventy years ago, Steve. Let it go.”

He rises from the couch in a flurry and strides over to his friend. “Let it go?” he challenges, face awash with disbelief. “I still dream about it. I still hear the air raid sirens going off outside the SSR bunker. I still see men – _boys_ – marching back from the front broken and torn and defeated. I still feel your hand on my shoulder, grounding me and bringing me back when some op got too intense… too personal.”

Bucky’s lips purse tight, a contemplative expression touching his face for just a fraction of a moment before he swiftly shakes his head, flinging it away. “I don’t remember that.”

“Well, I do,” he retorts a bit disdainfully. He pulls in a long breath, lets it out in a deflating sigh. “Buck… sometimes I look at you and I see you in that blue jacket, hiding out up in a tree, your face all scrunched up in concentration. You were always there… looking, waiting, ready to take out any threat. You always had my back. Mine and Dugan and Morita and Gabe. Dernier and even Falsworth. You were always there, at the ready. For us.” He pauses, takes a moment to catch his breath, his head beginning an awkward shake to-and-fro. “They’re all gone,” he says finally, the words a soft, somber echo of a deeply buried sentiment. “We’re the only ones left.” He looks back up at Bucky, soft blue eyes connecting with steely gray ones. “I can’t forget that. And I can’t let it go. I won’t.”

The two stay just like that for a long, drawn-out moment as decades worth of guilt and sorrow and grief build in the stoic stare they share. “I can’t talk about it,” Bucky says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not really. I…”

Steve shakes his head adamantly. “You don’t have to.” He drops a strong, firm hand atop his friend’s shoulder. “Just show up. Let the people there clap for you. Then you can go back to pretending like it never happened. If that’s what you want.” His hand falls away, sliding down his arm before reaching around him towards the front door. “Just… show up,” he says again before stepping swiftly out the door.

The room is cloaked in a heavy silence, the air thick and still. Until, “He could’ve said goodbye,” comes in a disgruntled mumble from the sofa.

Bucky looks up and over at the woman still sitting curled on the couch, her wide, sparkling eyes roving his face for… something. “I don’t want to go,” he mutters solemnly, taking a few large strides and flopping down beside her. He throws his head back into the cushions with a loud, dejected sigh and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “It’s just… people. I don’t want to be around people.”

She sets down her mug on the side table, along with the spent banana peel, and sidles closer to him, leaning into his side. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable doing,” she tells him as her head falls to his chest.

He pulls in a deep breath and drops his hands, right arm curling seamlessly around her shoulders and unconsciously tugging her body closer to his. “You usually tell me to just get over it.”

She chuckles in response, an amused snort punctuating the end. “Only when I know you’re using it as an excuse. Like saying you’re uncomfortable around people to get out of one of Tony’s parties when the truth is, you just think they’re boring.” She cocks her head up and gazes at the side of his face. “Are you just using that as an excuse now?” she asks, knowing full well – from the tight grip he has on her shoulder – that he’s not.

He shrugs.

“You know,” she mutters, pulling herself upright and twisting around to look at him. Her shifting pulls his attention and his eyes lock onto hers. “I never really think about your time at war. Not _that_ war anyway. I mean, I heard all the stories from Steve, the ones he was willing to share. And, you know I have your old uniform,” she intones with a sly wink. “But all of that… everything you went through… it was before you came into my life.” She offers a quick shrug. “Guess I just… can’t quite see you as the man you were before we met… back then.”

“The _boy_ I was,” he corrects dully, gaze once again ticking away, directed at nothing. “I was just a kid. We all were.” He pauses briefly, face screwing up in thought. “Except Dugan. He was always an old man.”

She stifles a quick laugh and reaches out, her fingertips grazing his cheek. “I wouldn’t mind getting to know him. That _boy_.”

He shakes his head, frown deepening and lips pinching harshly together as he gazes down at her. “No.”

She nods slowly, expression settling under his scrutiny, not at all taken back – nor intimidated – by his gruff response. “You’re not so different, I imagine,” she muses, fingers falling from his face. “Pretty sure most people who go to war feel the same… feel like the boy or girl they used to be is lightyears away from who they are now.” She pushes against his chest and awkwardly shoves off the couch, rising with a small yawn before saying, “Anyway. It’s your call, babe. But just for the record, I don’t think for a minute that either Sam or Steve would ask you to do something you couldn’t handle. And I don’t think they’d ever ask you to put yourself into an uncomfortable situation unless it was really damn important to them. So… maybe think about that before you decide.”

000

How it is that she’s ready to go before Bucky is beyond her.

“James?” she calls out, her voice pitching a bit shrill. She cringes at the sound of it and pulls in a deep breath to try and quell her vibrating nerves. “James,” she tries again, hollering down the hall, “We’re gonna be late!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mumbles under his breath as he finally steps out of their bedroom. His pace is achingly slow as he moves towards her, attention focused on the hems of his midnight blue sleeves, which he keeps awkwardly tugging at. “I’m ready,” he breathes out, words utterly devoid of any enthusiasm. He looks up to find her staring at him… eyes wide, expression absolutely gobsmacked. “What?” he asks, nervous pitch to his tone.

She steps gingerly forward and reaches up to lay her palms on the lapels of his newly issued dress blues, her eyes perusing every detail of the perfectly fitted uniform. “You look…” she starts, words fading off into nothing.

“I know,” he mutters with a frown. “I can’t believe Sam got the Army to issue us new uniforms. It’s ridiculous. I feel ridiculous.”

A tiny, breathy laugh spills from her lips as she glances up at him, eyes glassy. Her right hand slowly moves up to the back of his head where his hair has been tightly pulled back, the compromise made between keeping it respectfully off his collar and cutting it altogether. Then, her fingers fall, slowly gliding along his freshly shaven cheek. “You look…” she tries again.

He raises a teasing brow at her – “I look…?” – and reaches up to grab her hand. “You’re the one who told me I needed to shave,” he reminds her as he tugs her fingers down and folds them into his own. He takes a short step back and lets his eyes roam her body – form-fitted dark green silk and lace clinging to her hips, spilling down to the floor in a flowing, fluttering skirt that conceals her broken leg. He lifts her hand and spins her carefully round so he can see the rest of her, lets out a low whistle as she appeases him with the awkward, hopping turn. “ _You_ look amazing.”

She shakes her head a bit and continues to stare up at him with a look of absolute wonder plastered on her face. She brings her hand to her chest and stifles a shuddering breath as his form begins to blur, tears gradually collecting in her eyes.

“Are you crying?” he asks with a quick laugh. “Baby…”

“I’m just so… proud,” she says, the final word coming out almost a squeak. “And you look so handsome and so…” She sniffles a bit, her glassy eyes shining bright as she finishes with, “You’re perfect.”

He lets out a huge guffaw, face relaxing and eyes shining right along with hers. “How many Percocets did you take?”

She slaps him in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

And he sniggers some more. “I think this whole hiatus from work and _life_ is starting to affect you,” he jibes.

“It definitely is,” she confirms with a pout, internally shoving down all the other _things_ that have been affecting her lately. “But… still. I’m serious, babe. I am so proud of you. Of everything you did back then, all that you’re doing now. Jamie, I’m proud of everything that you _are_.”

A rather incredulous snort of a laugh spills out of him. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

“No it isn’t,” she tells him pointedly, bright green eyes narrowing. “Look… I know this isn’t easy for you. I know you’re still uncomfortable with this. I _know_. ”

His expression drops, light grin fading into a frown, lips pinching tightly together for a moment as he thinks on just how to say what he’s been thinking for days, ever since deciding to attend this _ridiculous_ event. A soft sigh hums out, jaw relaxing just a bit as he mutters, “If you can do it – confront your past, try to remember all the things _maybe_ better forgotten – I damn well can.”

Her gaze drops for a moment, rosy blush creeping up her neck, blotching her cheeks. She steps toward him again, gentle smile growing as she brings her hands back up to his chest. Her thumbs idly pluck at his lapels and she trains her eyes on the deep blue of his jacket, raising a single brow high. “I should probably mention… aside from being unbelievably proud, I am _so hot_ for you right now.”

“Really?” he asks, voice dropping an octave even as his eyebrows shoot up.

“This uniform…”

He presses himself closer to her, dropping both hands down to her hips. “Well…”

But a quick glance at the clock behind him has her swiftly pulling away, a contemplative – and admittedly regretful – look rolling over her face. “We’re already late.”

“But…” he whines, fingers grabbing at the silk of her dress as she turns and slips all too easily from his grip.

“Sorry,” she declares with a sigh, limping over towards the door to collect her crutches. “You’re just going to have to settle for a hand job in the car on the way there.”

His breath shudders to a stop for a moment – his brain doing the same – and his jaw bobs helplessly, mouth empty and agape. “We…” stutters out of him as he blinks and tries for more. “We’re… sharing a limo. With Steve and Romanov,” he bites out slowly… once he’s able to form words again.

She shrugs. “So grab a blanket.”

He laughs then, a deep, hearty chuckle as his head ducks to hide the bright, brilliant blush burning at his freshly shaven cheeks. “Baby,” he intones thickly, stepping in front of her to block her path to the door. He slides his arms beneath the crutches, drapes them loosely over her hips and tugs her to him.

“You’re not going to be late for this,” she says simply, an almost disappointed sheen falling over her features.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “How ‘bout this… you keep yourself in check on the ride there, and the _minute_ we go in, I’ll find a place where we can get some privacy.”

Her eyes seem to light up, coy smile blooming. “You gonna fuck me in a bathroom stall?” she asks, voice thick and sultry.

“Anything you want, doll. Bathroom, broom closet… maybe we can sneak off and find Sam’s car.” He lowers his head to the crook of her neck, nose swiping lazily along her skin as he pulls in the slightest, sweetest scent of vanilla, and smiles. “I’d go anywhere with you, sweetheart. Ends of the Earth.”

“Promises, promises,” she hums into the small space between them before pulling away and heading for the door.

000

Unfortunately, the moment they arrive, it becomes plainly evident that they aren’t going to get any time to themselves, not when Bucky is immediately pulled away – along with Steve – leaving Tessa and Natasha to mill about aimlessly in search of the open bar.

“There are a lot of people here,” Tessa wonders aloud, gaze drifting throughout the packed ballroom. Her eyes land on Bucky and Steve, standing side by side – shoulder to shoulder – in their pressed new uniforms, chatting casually with a handful of vets, most of whom look to be in their eighties or nineties. “They’ve found their generation,” she mutters softly, eagerly swiping the martini glass from Nat’s outstretched hand and taking a long sip.

Natasha gives her a crooked smirk. “I’m glad to see you’re getting back to… _you_ ,” she smarts delicately.

Tessa’s brows knit together, a wordless question.

She shrugs. “I was a little worried after New Years. Parties usually perk you up… pretty dresses and lots of drinks. Well,” she corrects herself quickly, “ _limited_ drinks now.”

“Ugh,” she mumbles around the lip of the glass. “Like I’ve told you before, my remaining kidney has been trained to filter alcohol better than most people’s tandem systems.”

“You’re pretty cute for an alcoholic,” the redhead teases, sipping at her own drink.

“Thank you.”

“I love this dress, by the way,” she muses, reaches down to pinch the flowing fabric of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes bounce over to Tessa’s left hand, lying draped atop the crutch. “Especially with that ring.”

“Oh,” she breathes out, turning a bit to lean both crutches against the bar and balance her weight on one leg. She brings her hand up with a wide, dreamy grin, twisting it side to side so that the giant emerald engagement ring catches the light and shimmers. “Yeah.”

“Still not quite used to it?” she asks with a small laugh.

Tessa releases a sigh, deflating a bit as she drops her hand and leans further into the bar. “Still surprised I haven’t lost it.” Then, face pinching for a quick moment, “Actually, I did the other day… just _misplaced_ it. For like a minute.”

“Tessa,” she barks out. “You’ve only even had it, what, a few weeks?”

She shrugs, “I found it,” slipping idly from her lips as her gaze settles once more on her fiancé. “Or… James did. Either way, I got it back.”

Natasha’s stare flickers over to their two super soldiers as well, watching as Steve lets out a deep laugh, his back quaking with it, Bucky’s shoulders loosening just a bit as he follows suit with a – much more subdued – laugh of his own. “Was he pissed?” she asks casually, taking another sip of her cocktail.

She blows out a long, dramatic breath, eyes rounding wide. “The look on his face…” she mutters, shaking her head dully. “I told him my leg hurt… he’ll usually back off if he thinks I’m sick or in pain.”

Nat spins back to face her. “You used your broken leg to get out of trouble?” she asks with a surprised – and rather chiding – edge.

“Not like it worked,” she pouts. “He threw it at me and said if I _misplaced_ it again he’d just assume I wanted out of everything.”

She shakes her head, still a bit reproachful, though this time – presumably – of both of them. “You two have such a _mature_ method of communicating.”

“As opposed to you and Bruce, you mean?” she singsongs sarcastically, eyes flitting back to her friend. “Ignoring each other for weeks and then holing up somewhere to fuck each other’s brains out for _days_ at a time?”

“I happen to enjoy fucking for days at a time. I find it relaxing.”

Tessa’s lips curl into a tight frown. “I wish I could remember what that was like,” she mutters absently before swallowing a thick gulp of martini.

Natasha raises a brow, twisting further towards her. “Relaxing or fucking?”

She nods. “Yes.”

A swift, light chuckle pulls from Nat’s chest, her lips pressing together into a thoughtful smile for a beat before she asks, a sincere note to her voice, “Is there a reason _why_?”

“Why I can’t relax? Yes.”

“And the other thing?” she inquires with a raised brow.

Tessa shrugs, eyes dropping down to her drink for a long moment. “Probably.” Then with a sigh, “Yeah. Yeah.” She offers another nonchalant shrug, the green silk of her dress sliding down her shoulder with the motion. “I’m… I don’t know.” She glances up at Natasha and huffs out a quick, sardonic laugh. “I guess I’m a little… scattered right now. Fucked up, maybe.” Her gaze shifts, returning to Bucky, catching him just as he looks her way and offers a gentle nod and grin. She returns the smile, refusing to let it falter until he turns away, his attention going to Sam as he strides over to the group with a bright beam and a swagger. “Definitely.”

“And Barnes?” the always perceptive spy asks casually. “He’s a little fucked up too.”

She looks back with a bit of a furrowed brow, confusion in her gaze. “I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, that wasn’t a question,” she corrects hurriedly, face set in a matter-of-fact expression. “For a trained, detached assassin, he’s pretty terrible about hiding how he feels.”

“Yeah?” she asks, knowing full well what she means – how could she not know about his propensity for wearing his heart on his sleeve, when his guard is down at least – but prodding for her interpretation all the same.

“You two have been through hell,” she says gently, reaching out and laying a hand atop Tessa’s. “He almost lost you on the op with Lobe. Then again with the motorcycle accident.”

“It really wasn’t that bad of an accident,” she interjects blithely. “I don’t why you all are so focused on it all the time.”

“Maybe because you spent over a week in the hospital and when you were finally released it was with just one kidney and more metal in your leg than bone?”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” she mumbles into her drink.

“Or maybe because it was months ago and you’re still recovering?”

“I’m mostly fine,” she argues, setting the empty martini glass on the bar with a small thud. “Really. But…” She waves an errant hand off in the direction of her fiancé, her face pulling into a sort of disgruntled grimace. “But _he’s_ still afraid I’m gonna break or something.”

Natasha merely shrugs. “Can you blame him? Between your leg and your _mind_ , you’ve been breaking for a while now.”

She scoffs bitterly before falling into a more resigned pout. “I get it. Sort of. I know he’s just… worried. But, Nat…” She levels her friend with a very serious, very formidable stare. “We’ve had sex like three times since the accident. We used to have sex three times a day!”

“That just sounds like a UTI waiting to happen,” she muses blandly.

“I’m being serious. I know a lot of this is on me. I know I haven’t exactly been… open to things lately. Because, you know, I’m a little…” She raises a pointed finger and twirls it wildly at her temple, cartoonish, _crazed_ look taking over her face.

Natasha slaps her hand away and gives her a reproachful glare. “Stop it. You’re not crazy. You just…” She shrugs, the movement and expression looking nonchalant despite the coming words. “You’re having a mutant telepath rebuild your mind so you can remember who you really are. Or… were.”

Tessa’s eyes blow wide, head nodding slowly. “Uh, yeah. Exactly. _Crazy._ ”

She lets out a light laugh in response before steeling her features. “Are you going through a time? Yes. You are. And my guess is that Barnes knows that and doesn’t want to do anything that might… upset you.”

The deep frown returns, along with an overdone whine. “But it upsets me to think that he doesn’t _want_ me. He used to want me.”

“Tessa, he still wants you,” she corrects, a bit harsher than intended. “There is no possible way that that man has stopped wanting you.”

Her stare veers off towards nothing, lingering just above the heads of everyone in the room as a reflective sheen breaks out across her face. “But it’s like he’s too scared or, I don’t know… _hesitant_ … to _do_ anything about it.”

“Well,” she breathes out casually. “You do know that _you_ could do something about it too, right?”

Her lips tightly purse, gaze traveling back to Bucky, who’s now surrounded by even more people, mostly older men in uniform. “Yeah,” she mutters, sounding almost dejected. “I thought… I _tried_ to get something going earlier. Sort of. But now…” She shrugs, continuing to watch as the tightness in his shoulders all but fades away, a delicate, easy smile gracing his features as he chats with new friends. Comrades.

Nat slides a little closer, her attention now also on the horde of men across the room. “Hm,” pulls from between a tight-lipped smirk. “I feel like you could still manage now.” She glances at Tessa from the corner of her eye. “Really, those guys have nothing on you. Especially in that dress.”

“You just love this dress because you’re the one who picked it out,” she mutters, never pulling her eyes away from the merry-looking group.

“Well, yes, I do have excellent taste.” Tessa turns then, a rather amused, almost scheming look rolling over her face. “What?” Natasha asks, genuinely curious about the sudden shift in demeanor.

She grabs the drink from Nat’s hand, throws back the little bit that was left of it – earning her a disappointed eyeroll from her friend – gathers her crutches beneath her, and begins to hobble off. “Come on,” she tosses over her shoulder. “I need your help with something.”

000

Bucky has to admit – to himself, not to anyone else, obviously – that this whole thing really isn’t _that bad_. For one thing, Sam had actually done a great job organizing the benefit. Press was scarce, as were those particular sorts of philanthropists Stark so often hung around… the rich bitch, painfully phony types who just _love_ to share money with a good cause, as long as they can be either entertained by it or lauded for it. But no, this crowd seems to be almost entirely vets and their families. And as much as he didn’t think it would happen – couldn’t see how it might – there’s something about these men and women, all of whom have that same hooded, practiced quality about them, that makes him feel like he might actually _belong_.

It also doesn’t hurt that there’s an open bar, a slew of people wanting to bring him drinks, and a light and jovial Steve at his side regaling everyone with stories of their past. So much had returned to Bucky over the last few years, so many memories. But there are still holes pocking his story, still reminiscing that he can’t quite manage doing. And every time Steve gets going on a tear like this, tale after tale falling from his lips amid thick chortles and firm pats on the shoulder, he manages to fill at least a few of those holes.

“Excuse me, sir?” he hears suddenly from his left, a young – too young to be serving alcohol, it seemed – waiter lightly tapping him on the shoulder. He clears his throat awkwardly and hands off a glass of scotch – one he hadn’t ordered – while also slipping him a rather thin white envelope. “From the lady at the bar,” he declares simply, backing away before Bucky can say a word. He glances over to the bar, cocking his head and quirking a suspicious, if entertained, grin at the brunette sitting there, green silk, trailing down her body in a mossy waterfall.

Tessa catches his eye, pops a brow as she sips at her drink – _another_ martini, he knows because he’s sure as shit been counting – and turns back to continue her conversation with Natasha.

“What’s that?” Steve asks casually, glancing down at the envelope in his hand.

“An admirer,” one of the _much older_ – if only in looks and not truly in years – gentlemen announces with a lilt and a wink. “She’s a _looker_ ,” he intones following Bucky’s eyes over to the two women at the bar.

“They both are,” a younger man in full dress blues declares as he leans across the group to catch a peak. “You know which one it’s from?”

“Hopefully the redhead,” a slight, ninety some-odd year old man states with a wiggle of his brows.

Steve slaps Bucky on the shoulder, a quick laugh vibrating out of him. “I’m pretty sure _none of us_ could handle the redhead,” he declares with a knowing cadence.

“So the one in green, then?” the first man asks, _tsk tsk_ ing as he shakes his head slowly back and forth. “Quite a dame.”

Sam sputters a chuckle and nudges the man with his shoulder. “You have no idea,” he muses thickly, shit-eating grin plastered to his face.

Bucky shoots him a glare, Steve laughing by his side. “Seriously,” he tries again, chin ticking down towards the envelope. “What’d she send you?”

“A love letter?” the elderly gentleman teases, laughing raucously before making kissy noises into the air.

Sam turns to him with a smile and a sigh. “Knowing Tess, it’s probably a threat written out in letters clipped from a magazine. _Get me the hell out of here before another marine hits on me!_ ”

He chuckles at that, mostly because he’s been watching her all night and _knows_ that she’s been putting out the _don’t come near me_ vibe anytime a young – or old, for that matter – vet came sauntering over.

“Wait,” the younger man asks, confusion pulling at his face. “Sergeant Barnes, you know her?”

“I sure hope so,” Steve interjects over the lip of his drink. “He’s supposed to marry her.”

“Yeah,” he mutters with a crooked grin. “As long as she stops losing that damn ring.” He fumbles for a moment, taking a quick drink of the scotch – top shelf, warm and smooth – before awkwardly balancing the glass while working open the envelope.

“Lucky man,” he hears one of the men say, unsure which one, unable to look up and see… not when his eyes are positively _glued_ to the contents of the envelope.

Bucky chokes on a breath, swallowing thickly and ducking his head as he feels a bright blush burn along his cheeks. “What is it?” Steve asks again, leaning over to peek inside.

He furiously pinches the package shut and takes a sudden long step back, away from the group. “I’ve gotta…” He clears his throat, glancing up just long enough to catch the confused – and amused – looks being bestowed upon him. “Excuse me,” he tries again, offering a conciliatory smile as he pulls further away. “Please.”

He hurries away from the group, dodging others in the now filled ballroom as he makes a beeline for the bar. Tessa and Natasha both seem lost in conversation when he rolls up, pressing himself to his fiancée’s side as she mutters something about peaches being the devil’s fruit.

“Hey, Barnes,” Nat greets glibly, smirking wildly at him. “You look a little… flushed. Everything okay?”

He rolls his eyes, but otherwise ignores her presence, cocking his head down a bit to whisper in Tessa’s ear, “You lose something, doll?”

She looks up at him with a sheen of pure innocence. “What do you mean?” she asks, green eyes gleaming but otherwise giving nothing away. He holds out the envelope for her and she slips her fingers inside, pinching them around a chuck of lace. “Well,” she intones breathily, slowly pulling the black panties from the package. “Where did you find _these_?”

“They’re cute,” Natasha offers with a sly intonation and a nod just before she easily rises from her stool and slinks away.

“Some woman at the bar sent them to me. Along with a damn fine scotch,” he declares, the rosy blush only just now waning.

“Some woman?” she intones, hand flying to her heart in mock affrontment.

“Don’t worry, doll,” he snickers before downing the rest of his drink in a giant gulp – too much for the kind of liquor you should sip and savor, not that he gives a _shit_ about savoring _that_ right now. “I only have eyes for you.” He reaches over to pluck the lacy underwear from her grip, slowly curling his fingers around her wrist as he palms the fabric. “Come on,” he breathes out, lips falling to her hair, voice once again a whisper just for her. “Pretty sure I know where Sam parked.”

Her face splits into a wide smile as she slowly rises, leaning heavily into him as he reaches around to gather her crutches. “How do you always know just what to say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this helps offset some of the _pain_ of the last chapter. I know that one was tough. And - not gonna lie - there are some more tough moments to come. But I had a lot of fun with this sweet little memory, and I hope that you all did too. I'd love to hear what you all think!


	9. Whatever You Need

_New York, after:_

Things had begun to settle. The whole world round. News of the Snap – what it was that had even happened, why, who was responsible, the unbearable truth that it was something that couldn’t be undone – had effectively spread across the globe. Well, as effectively as news could travel when most media outlets were down and much of the world existed in a slow-moving sort of chaos. But still, once summer had ended and a new season began, a vague sense of acceptance – realization at the very least – had started to take root. And the world began to settle.

As for the remaining Avengers – and their new _friends_ – summoning the courage to move on, or to at least try to, took a bit longer. For weeks following Thanos’ death, there had been nothing but empty shock in the eyes of each individual silently creeping along the halls of the compound. For _months_. But ever so slowly, as the world around them began to _move_ once again, they too started to take charge of their lives.

For Bruce, this meant finding a lab off in the middle of nowhere where he could sequester himself to focus, to search for answers… to find his place. For Tony and Pepper, it meant leaving the city, moving into their secluded, not-so-little home by the lake, and starting a family. Thor had just taken off with what remains of his people to begin anew, start a fresh – Earthen – Asgard. And the rest of the team, well, the rest of them seem to be ready to just plain _work_.

“So where the hell do you get off telling _me_ that I _can’t_?” Tessa seethes, fiery eyes bouncing wildly between each and every naysayer in the room.

Oh sure, start passing out assignments for Avengers-related work. Say goodbye to Carol as she jets off to save the universe. Put together a plan with Okoye to begin policing both sides of the globe. Set up strategies with the weird blue robot chick and the talking racoon to find and offer aide throughout the galaxy. But let a trained physician help pick up some of the slack left by all the medical professionals who’d been snapped away? No. That’s crossing a line.

“Tess,” Steve breathes out, an impatience implicit in his airy tone. “You really think this is the best time?”

She spins on him, eyes narrowed dangerously. “Hospitals are _drowning_ , Steve. Clinics, practices… this _Snap_ ,” she spits out, still unable to utter the word – so simple, so unsuitable for describing the world being torn in two – without nearly choking on it. “It was… indiscriminate. A fuck ton of the people left behind were and _are_ sick. And a fuck ton of doctors and nurses and other medical professionals were…” She raises her brows, leaning forward and snapping her fingers almost manically in lieu of saying _killed. Slaughtered. Erased._

“I know that,” he replies, his voice just calm enough to where it toes the line of patronizing. She feels a flair of anger ignite in her gut. “And I think it’s… noble that you want to help.”

“ _Noble_?” she bites out with an incredulous – disgusted – intonation.

He merely nods. “ _But_ , I don’t think that now is a good time for _you_.”

“Because I’m pregnant,” she states glibly, no question to her voice. “You must have that _condition_ confused with being _made of fucking glass_!”

Rocket leans over to Rhodes, the two sitting idly at the conference table – along with an utterly intrigued Nebula – simply watching as the drama unfolds. “She always talk like that?” he asks, barely a whisper. “Fuck this… fuck that?”

Rhodey, eyes glued straight ahead, merely shrugs. “Yeah, sometimes.” His brow furrows, pensive look taking over as he studies the raging woman from afar. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite so… _mad_ before, though. Could be the hormones…”

Tessa rocks back on her heels and turns a side-eye glare their way, almost growling before intoning mockingly, “Oh, I’m sorry, did you have some expertise to share regarding hormone fluctuations? Do you have some grand insight for me, middle-aged _man_ and talking _rat_?”

Natasha lets out a small chuckle and then easily slides around Tessa to block her view of the two offenders, eager to avoid distractions and focus solely on the task at hand – convincing her friend that this is a _bad_ idea. “Nobody’s saying that you’re incapable of working because you’re pregnant,” she states simply. “Just that you _shouldn’t_.”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs. “You’re all idiots.”

“No,” she retorts. “We’re not. What we _are_ , are a group of people who are worried about our pregnant friend – who happens to already be high risk because she only has one kidney, and is carrying a baby that may well have an enhanced metabolism that could cause all sorts of problems…”

Another eye roll. “I’m _fine_.”

“Who also just went through hell,” she goes on, unfazed, her voice actually rising a bit. “Is _still_ going through hell.”

“Nat,” she tries to interrupt.

But Natasha is having none of it, her shoulders pulling taut, pointed finger rising as she steps closer and aims it at Tessa’s face. “You push yourself too hard. Always. You like to say that work is good for you, that it distracts you or gives you an outlet – ”

“Because it does!”

“But you get _lost_ , Tessa. You lose yourself there. And, right now, I know that probably appeals to you… I get that. But… but you can’t afford to get lost. And damn it, I can’t afford to lose you!”

Tessa’s lips pinch tightly together as she works to keep herself from shouting back, from saying all the things she aches to say… _This isn’t about you. You don’t get to tell me what to do. Fuck you for thinking I don’t know better._ She pulls in a short breath and opts instead for, “I won’t get lost,” an empty promise at best.

“Not to interrupt,” Rhodey says with a not-so-subtle throat clear. The two women turn to face him, Natasha taking full advantage of the disruption to compose herself and blink away the sheen of tears now coating her eyes. “But aside from whether or not you _should_ go back to work, there’s the issue of whether or not you even _can_. Legally, I mean. You are still a wanted criminal.”

“What’d she do?” Rocket asks, his pointed ears perking in interest.

Tessa crosses her arms over her body – still surprised by the new thickness to her middle as she does so – and plants herself in a defiant stance. “Killed some people,” she tells him coolly.

His furry forehead wrinkles. “How many people? Five? Ten? A hundred?”

She doesn’t so much as blink, face a stoic mask, as she replies. “Something like that.”

He leans back a bit, melting into the oversized chair. At his left, Nebula sits straight and tall, her head cocking dramatically to the side. “I like you,” she states plainly, connecting with Tessa’s eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment.

“Is there a way… around that?” Steve wonders aloud, his voice giving Tessa the opportunity to finally turn away from the cyborg’s unsettling stare. He looks over at Rhodes, curious crinkling to his brow. “I mean, the rest of us were pardoned.”

Rhodes shrugs. “Not officially. Without Ross around to play ringleader, the few people left on the security council were pretty easily convinced. And yeah, _they_ might be willing to forgive some of what she did. Maybe. But I don’t know that any Canadian officials will.”

“Well, we’re not in Canada,” Tessa mutters blithely.

Rhodes breathes out an easy sigh before patiently continuing, directing his words at Steve. “There’s still the registry, too, which Ross made sure she was put on.”

“Yeah, but… no one’s actually _doing_ anything with that right now,” Steve points out. Following it up with, “And he put her on there as Tessa Sullivan, but that’s not her legal name. It’s Tessa Barnes. Or Teresa? Anna Teresa…” His brow suddenly furrows and he spins to face her. “Whatever it is, it’s _Barnes_ now, though… right?”

She nods. “Yeah. Got the Wakandan passport to prove it.” She narrows her eyes suspiciously at him. “Does this mean you’re on my side? Making sure it’s safe for me to practice?”

“No,” he says with a sharp shake of his head. “I just want to make sure that no one’s going to come arrest you when you check into the hospital to give birth.”

“I’ll dig a little deeper,” Rhodes offers from his side of the room. “I’m sure we can figure something out. Even if it means a little bit of identity fraud.”

She raises her brows and lets out a snort. “Story of my life.”

“Well,” Rocket interjects casually. “Maybe you wouldn’t have to hide if you didn’t go around killing a hundred people.”

She turns a withering look his way. “I didn’t say it was a hundred. And I’ve been hiding who I am all my life. Because people are fucking terrified of anything that’s _different_ ,” she states, her eyes widening and suddenly shimmering with a bright blue glow.

“Now _that_ sounds like the story of _my_ life,” he mutters in response.

Nebula gazes at her again, her eyes ticking down to the dancing tendrils of bright blue light flickering from her fingertips. “I find you fascinating.”

“Thank you,” she deadpans before fisting her hands to shut down the show and turning back to Steve – and Natasha, who’s now by his side in a seeming stance of solidarity. “Look, I don’t know why we’re even talking about this. I’m not asking for permission. I’m not _running this past you_. I’m telling you. I already cleared things with Pepper… she’s letting me back into my apartment in the city. It’s just a few blocks from Memorial, which is _desperate_ for doctors of any kind. I have a meeting with their new chief of staff on Monday.”

Natasha tightens her arms across her chest, stating, “I don’t like it,” with an audible pout. She looks up at Tessa and shakes her head, the movement almost sorrowful. “I don’t want you in the city.”

She lets out a languid sigh and lightens her tone, just a bit. “Nat… It’s forty minutes away. Tops. No traffic anymore,” she utters with a shrug. Then, locking onto her friend’s grief-filled eyes, the lost-seeming gaze that has only seemed to grow over the last few months, she says simply – the most honest and telling thing she can think to share – “I can’t be here.”

Natasha’s jaw ticks to the side, eyes dropping for just a moment as she processes that.

“And…” Tessa starts up, taking a beat to decide what exactly to say. “I can’t _not_ be doing something right now. All of you are _doing_ something. All of you are… trying to help. I need to do that too. And – yeah – I need a distraction. I need to work.”

“But…”

“I promise you, I won’t do too much or push myself too hard. Really.”

Steve speaks up then, pulling both sets of solemn green eyes his way. “No, you won’t,” he declares simply. “Because I’m gonna be right there making damn sure that you don’t.”

000

The promise is kept. Mostly. Tessa maintains a relatively easy schedule at the hospital. No overtime unless absolutely necessary. No overnight shifts that would wreak havoc on her system. No exposure to serious communicable diseases, radiation, or anything… fun. She plays it safe, focuses on her work without getting lost in it, returns home on time most nights, and checks in with _mother_ Steve to let him know that everything’s good.

Only, everything’s not… good.

Aside from the obvious struggles she’d been hoping might be assuaged by redirecting her focus – which isn’t really panning out anyway – Tessa is met with a rather startling revelation not long after starting at Memorial. She is woefully unprepared to be part of the outside world again.

After years of working in offices and labs – or in… agriculture – she’d managed to develop a healthy sense of amnesia when it came to dealing with patients. Even as the lead physician for the Avengers, she rarely saw anyone, so few _heroes_ seeking her out unless treatment was absolutely required. And by that point, the majority of her bedside manner consisted of harsh admonishments whilst staunching blood loss.

It had been _years_ since she’d been exposed to _real_ people and _normal_ patients. Years since she’d been expected to treat strangers. Years since she’d been forced to deal with minor maladies and insignificant stich-ups, feverish babies and drugged-up junkies. And oh, the junkies. It doesn’t even seem fair to call them that anymore. Not now. Back when she had done her ER rotation – all those years ago – she’d seen her fair share of ODs and addicts claiming pain in hopes of a fix. But now? Now _everyone_ needs some sort of fix.

After just two months of working at the hospital, she’s already seen nearly thirty ODs roll through, too many only barely stopping on their way to the morgue. And so, so many of them are obviously _not_ accidents. Every night, it seems, the news reports on the consistent swell of suicides in the area – in _every_ area. The Brooklyn Bridge is being shut down to foot traffic, too many people taking seemingly casual strolls ending in plummets to the icy water below. Abandoned vehicles are being hotwired and driven out of lots – most of the empty cars clogging roads immediately following the Snap having been finally cleared away – only so that they can be run into trees, walls, concrete embankments miles away.

When it isn’t overdoses or alcohol poisoning – or the typical day-to-day sprains, stitches, and sicknesses – taking up Tessa’s time, she barricades herself in the small office given to her and falls headlong into all of the administrative tasks she used to loathe. She still hates them, truth be told. But some days, anything is better than being exposed to the suffering of all the people sitting out in the waiting room. Especially now.

The further into her pregnancy she gets, the more emotional she becomes. Grief, fear, and those traitorous hormones causing her own energy to dive into a tailspin in the blink of an eye, sending her most often into either unabating tears or unmatched fury. It’s never been more important – more _necessary_ – to shield herself from intrusive outside energies. But it’s also never been harder. She feels… out of sorts on a good day. Completely inept on bad days. And the surrounding anguish is so thick, so aggressive, that it takes everything she’s got to block it out. And blocking it out causes her to be cold and indifferent towards her patients.

Years ago, she had proclaimed that she’s not a clinician. Today, she simply says that she’s a shitty one.

But everyone keeps telling her she’s great. They laude her stamina, her work ethic, citing how particularly impressive it is for her to put in the hours – mostly on her feet – while eight months pregnant. Shaking their heads slowly as they lament, _I could never do what you’re doing_ , thinking only of her braving every day without her better half.

But they _have_ to tell her she’s great. They _have_ to make her think she’s important. Because they need her. Desperately. With too few doctors left – either because they were snapped out of existence or because, like so many others in the world, they simply _can’t_ – the people at work would do almost anything to ensure that she simply keeps coming in day after day.

Day after day after day. It’s grueling. Monotonous and exhausting and – she’s only just now realizing – very possibly perilous.

The headache starts as a dull throb at the base of her skull, slowly growing, emanating out to encase _everything_ by around noon. She tries to shut down in her office for a bit, that usually doing the trick when exhaustion strikes or a headache blooms. But even the tiniest bit of noise emanating in from the mostly empty halls outside quickly becomes almost unbearable. Assuming it’s just a _different_ sort of migraine, she finally relents and heads home to rest.

But whatever this is, it is not like any migraine she’s ever had before.

It’s not until she pukes bile all over her bed, too weak and out of it to rise and make it to the toilet in time, that she _knows_ something is wrong. An achingly slow change of clothes, a quick call to her OB, and she finally pulls in a steeling breath and asks Friday – how strange and wonderful it is to have the voice in the walls back again at least – to alert Steve that she needs him.

As promised, Steve had followed her back to the city, not at all pleased about her decision to return to work, but secretly more than happy to leave the haunting walls of the compound behind. Tessa had returned to the apartment in the Tower that had been hers – mostly just hers, Bucky only ever staying the occasional weekend with her in the city – when she was a department head at the now far-downscaled Stark Industries. And Steve had – very easily – talked Pepper into letting him move in across the hall.

“Tessa?” he calls out, entering her apartment no more than a minute or two after she asks Friday to call him. “Hey,” he breathes out as he turns the corner to the bedroom and sees her sitting on the corner of the stripped bed, head in her hands, scent of sickness still clinging to the air. He drops to a knee in front of her, cocking his head to look up and find her face, her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Thinly veiled panic. That’s what she feels roll off of him in a nearly debilitating wave. But she’s simply too weak to shut it down, to put up her walls and block out his energy. She barely has enough strength to even look at him, her hands dropping to her lap as she utters faintly, “I need to go to the hospital.”

He nods, slowly, cautiously, and reminds himself to breath. “Oh. Okay.”

“I just…” she starts, swallowing thickly. “I don’t feel… right.”

Another nod as he swiftly rises, holding out his hands. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

000

_Preeclampsia_.

“Or so we’re assuming,” Dr. Montgomery – the only remaining OB on staff at Memorial – tells her. She flits her eyes up and down the chart in her hand, closely studying the most recent test results with a soft, kind smile painted on her face. _She_ is a clinician, Tessa thinks to herself as the middle-aged woman finally looks up at her, a shaded quality to her gentle gaze. _She knows how to talk to people, how to put them at ease with little more than a smile. She knows how to lie._

Tessa tosses a quick glance at the monitor behind her. “145 over 90,” she announces before turning back to the doctor with a pleading sort of hope in her eyes. “That’s better.”

And it’s true, it is a better reading than they got when she first arrived, her blood pressure being high enough that she immediately demanded a new nurse come in and take it, the first _clearly_ having done something wrong. But it’s still high. Too high.

Dr. Montgomery nods. “It is. And that’s good. _But_ – ”

“I had coffee this morning,” she interrupts her to admit. “And… it’s probably just a migraine… this headache. And I got myself all… worried…”

Steve’s hand falls to her shoulder, warm fingers offering a reassuring squeeze. “Tess,” he interjects softly, ceasing her frightened ramblings. He looks down at her with such compassion in his eyes that it makes her want to cry. He looks at her as though she’s falling apart in front of him. “You’re the one who said that something was wrong, that you didn’t feel right.”

She pulls in a swift breath, her mouth bobbing open to speak, to issue out all of reasons and excuses and justifications that will explain away how this is nothing. Just a headache and an overreaction. But the doctor in her stills her tongue. And the doctor before her speaks before she gets a chance to pull out of her own hesitant hold.

“A woman comes in at 32 weeks complaining of headache and nausea, her blood pressure at admittance is 155/95, protein present in the urine… what would you be inclined to diagnose?”

Tessa’s mouth slams shut, teeth clanking loudly together. Her gaze drops, faltering under the kind but assertive stare of the OB.

“Even a heightened sense of anxiety can be a symptom of preeclampsia,” she goes on. “And I may not know you well, but as both a patient and a coworker, I have known you to be nothing but… cool under pressure.”

She snorts out a huff. “I’d like to see you in this bed, hooked up to these monitors, and remain _cool_.”

A soft smile. A gentle _hm_ to get her patient’s eyes to return to hers. “That’s a fair point, Dr. Barnes,” she allows congenially.

Steve clears his throat from the side of the bed, garnering both women’s attention. “This… what did you call it?” he asks, brows scrunching up. He had been here the entire time, save the ten minutes or so it took for the nurse to get Tessa checked in and changed, at which point he made a quick call to Natasha and resumed a nervous pace up and down the hall until he was told he could reenter. But through it all, he honestly couldn’t figure out just what was going on. She was sick. Her blood pressure was high. But… “What does it _mean_?”

“Preeclampsia is a condition in pregnant women that results in high blood pressure and possible organ damage,” the doctor replies, her voice terribly soft and quite diplomatic despite the harsh message being relayed. “It can be very serious,” she goes on, shifting her gaze to Tessa for a beat. “And dangerous for both mother and child. Potentially even fatal.”

“Oh my God,” Tessa squeaks out, aghast. “Don’t _tell_ him that!” She turns wide, shocked eyes on Steve, finds a horrified expression that nearly mirrors her own. “It’s not… it isn’t _that_.”

A loud scoff sounds from the doorway, all eyes turning to see Natasha – looking uncharacteristically frazzled – sweep into the room, a rather harsh glare falling on the woman in the bed. “Why can you _never_ just admit when something’s wrong?”

Tessa pulls back and frowns, countenance drooping. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

She pulls up alongside her, opposite side of the bed from Steve, and immediately reaches out to brush back some of Tessa’s hair, her voice low and serious as she states, “The mere fact that you told Steve to bring you here shows just how serious this is.” She looks up at the doctor, raises a single, almost warning brow. “She downplays _everything_.”

Dr. Montgomery nods, the same soft smile still riding on her lips as she instinctively works to put everyone in the room at ease. “I can imagine.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Tessa says with a huff, her voice holding just enough of a tremble to cause Natasha’s gut to clench. “I’m just saying that… I have a pre-existing _issue_ …”

The doctor nods. “Yes, which puts you at a higher risk for preeclampsia.”

“No,” she argues, tone steeling. “No. I don’t have _kidney disease_. I just… had a nephrectomy a few years ago. And… being pregnant taxes the kidneys – _kidney_ – and… I haven’t been taking as good of care of myself as I should’ve been…”

“Shocking,” Nat mutters before turning a pointed stare on Steve. “I still can’t believe you let her move out here and go back to work. You know…” Her eyes blink swiftly shut, a sudden onslaught of emotion showing on her face and slamming up against Tessa’s already fragile defenses.

Steve just shakes his head. “I didn’t _let_ her do anything. No one was going to stop her. And besides, she’s been fine. She’s been doing fine.”

“I’m not…” Tessa starts again, looking ahead at her doctor as she tries to ignore her friends. “I’m just saying that stress on my kidney could be responsible for these symptoms. And while I know that preeclampsia will always need to be considered in someone presenting as I am, it is not… _should_ not be the definitive diagnosis.”

“That’s true,” Dr. Montgomery capitulates. “But to be safe, we’re going to keep you here for monitoring.”

“What, um,” Steve mutters as he shifts back on his heels. “What are you going to… _do_?”

Natasha turns her attention on the doctor as well, brow once again raised high as she waits for a response. “Well,” she begins, gaze bouncing between the two friends flanking her patient. “The only truly effective treatment for preeclampsia is delivery.”

“But…” Steve starts, forehead creasing in both concern and confusion.

But it’s Natasha’s voice that breaks in, an alarmed utterance of, “She’s not ready,” shooting out of her before she has the opportunity to stave off the fear and fortify her tone.

Tessa reaches out and takes her hand, folds her slightly trembling fingers up into her own. “They started me on meds and my blood pressure’s dropped some already. If it hits a normal threshold, and if no other symptoms appear… I’ll be fine. _She’ll_ be fine.”

“And,” the doctor goes on to say, “if we do have to make the decision to deliver early, 32 weeks is still perfectly viable.” She shuts down the chart on her tablet and hugs the device close to her chest as she looks down at Tessa, her voice once again taking on that strict quality as she says, “You and I both know how serious this can be. For you _and_ your baby. So I don’t want you _downplaying_ anything. Is that understood?”

She blanches a bit under the sudden scrutiny, the accusation that her willfulness might endanger not just her own life – because how many times has that happened already? – but her daughter’s as well. “Yeah,” she mutters softly, breathing out the word as her eyes veer down, away from the doctor’s penetrating gaze, towards the space where her baby is currently beating a subtle rhythm out on her ribs. “I understand.”

“Good,” she says, her smile brightening. She drops a hand to Tessa’s knee – just a quick, reassuring touch – and tells her, “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit,” before ambling back out into the quiet hall of the otherwise empty maternity ward.

The room falls into a thick silence to match. Barely a breath can be heard as the three friends work to settle their nerves, to make sense of what is – or might be – happening. Tessa looks up at Natasha, a glassiness to her eyes as she says again, perhaps more for herself, “I really don’t think that’s what this is.”

She offers a sad smile and drops down to the edge of the bed, slipping close so that they’re hip to hip. “Doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t,” she tells her with a fierce resolve. “Either way, we’ll deal with it. Right?” She waits for Tessa to nod, a single tear trailing down her face when she does so, and then she looks up at Steve.

“Absolutely,” he agrees with a tight nod, the word coming out emphatic despite the creeping doubt in his gut.

Tessa lets out a harsh sigh and harrumph, reaches up and swiftly wipes away a few fresh tears before issuing a short, sardonic chuckle. “God,” she breathes out, tone clogged. “She’s not even here and I’m already a terrible mother.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Nat says as she gives her hand a squeeze. “This is just… stress. You’re body’s stressed.”

“Yeah, because I stressed it,” she argues with a sniffle.

Steve shakes his head somberly. “Tessa, there’s no way you wouldn’t be stressed out right now. We all are… the whole world. If anything… you’ve kept it together a hell of a lot better than some of the rest of us.”

“I’d agree with that,” Natasha interjects.

“And the fact that you got me and told me what was going on, told me to bring you here…” He trains his brilliant blue eyes on her in an utterly sincere stare. “You never would’ve done that for yourself. I know that. You did it for _her_.”

She shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to be… good.” Again, her gaze falls to her middle, her free hand – the one Natasha isn’t squeezing like a lifeline – pressing lightly into the spot where she feels her daughter kick. _Like a little bird_. A pronounced thump connecting with her palm amid the tiny flutters. “I don’t even know _how_ to be a mom.”

“I don’t think anybody really _knows_ ,” Steve mutters from her other side, offering a soft smile when she chances a glance up at him. “You just gotta… love her. And we all know you’re gonna be great at that.”

She snuffles a bit, her throat clicking around the emptiness of uncoordinated words as a sudden rush of doubt and fear slams into her. Her now wide eyes veer frantically between him and Natasha as she asks, voice pitched high and wild, “What if I forget to feed her?”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth quirks up into a crooked, amused grin. “Then she’ll cry to remind you. Great thing about babies, they make it very clear when you’re screwing up.”

“What if I drop her?” she goes on, that air of desperation that comes from deep inside her spiraling mind seamlessly slipping into the words.

“Well, her mama is just about the best doctor I know, so I imagine she’ll fix her.”

“What if I can’t fix her? What if she does… break? Or gets sick? What if this _is_ preeclampsia… and she’s born too soon and she’s too small and she can’t breathe and she doesn’t… thrive? And there’s nothing I can do about it?”

She gives her hand a strong, firm squeeze, her eyes ticking up for just a fraction of a second to silently chide Steve for the startled little gasp he releases at her words. “She’s going to be _fine_.”

“You don’t know that,” she mutters, voice dropping along with her troubled gaze.

“I know it,” Steve interjects then, his utterance pulling her dark green eyes up to meet his. “She’s _you_ , Tess. And she’s _him_. And there are no two stronger people I’ve ever known. So, Nat’s right. She’s gonna be fine. And so are you.”

She nods, the motion desperate, frantic – “Yeah. Okay.” – and pulls in a deep breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she takes a moment to try and just _breathe_.

“I promise,” he goes on to say, his tone soft and low as his warm palm returns to her shoulder.

She sits in aching silence for just a moment more before, “But…” sputters out of her, the thick ball of tension in her stomach just barely beginning to unwind as her maddening mind continues to spin. “But… what about _other_ things? What if she… hates me?”

“You’re her mother,” Natasha says with a shrug. “Eventually she’s going to hate you. It’s a rite of passage.”

“What if she’s… weird? But not like _cool_ weird… just _weird_ weird?”

“You mean like Bruce?” she asks without missing a beat, sly twinkle brimming over in her eyes.

“What if she doesn’t have any friends? Or… what if she has _too many_ friends? What if she wants to be a cheerleader or something? Or… what if she decides to become an _artist_? I… I can’t… I wouldn’t know what to do… And what if she… loses her virginity to her high school art teacher because he’s young and cool, and he has a man bun?”

Steve takes that one, chuckling lightly before bracing his features and telling her simply, “Then I’ll scalp him and lock her in her room until she’s thirty.”

“Eighteen at least,” Nat offers with a shrug.

Tessa goes silent for a long moment, seeming to calm, but really still frantically parsing out the millions of _what ifs_ pinging around inside her brain. It’s all the same things – along with some newly conjured ones – that she’d spat out at Bucky in those first few weeks after finding out that she was pregnant. Daily, out of the blue, she’d pepper him with questions, some sincere, some rather absurd. And each and every time he’d calm her rapidly spinning mind, whether with a well-placed retort or a simple embrace, a sincere, _it’ll all be okay_ , always slipping easily from his lips.

But he’s not here to silence her doubts now. He’s not here to still her mind and hold her close and spill reassurances – that she somehow always managed to _believe_ – into her.

“What if it’s _obvious_ she’s a…” She stops short, pressing her lips tightly together. This is one that she’d already talked out with Bucky in the past. Shuri too, in fact. Yet still it lurks within, a fear that rolls idly to the surface every so often in odd and alarming imaginings. She leans close to Steve, catching his curious stare, and whispers, “a mutant?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, cocking his head in confusion.

“What if she’s… green? Or blue? Or… I don’t know. Sometimes there are _physical_ traits. You met Mystique. And Hank… Hank has _fur_.”

He nods slowly, contemplatively, as he takes in her words. Then he breathes out a wistful sort of sigh, small, crooked grin on his face as he declares, “Then I guess she’ll just be beautiful in a different way.”

Well… that’s a good answer, she has to admit. But it doesn’t change the very real danger that something like that would bring. It doesn’t change the fact that, “If people _know_ – ”

Natasha clears her throat, words coming out soft and low and _decisive_. “We will _never_ let anything happen to her. No one will ever hurt her or take her away, or do _anything_ to her.” She levels Tessa with a pointed stare. “ _You_ would never let that happen, even if you didn’t have us.”

“And you sure as hell have us,” Steve points out, single, conclusive brow raised high.

A long sigh pulls from her chest, a rather depleting and exhaustive breath that seems to signal the end of her meltdown. She sinks back into the pillows behind her, her eyes dropping away from the still concerned – still _encouraging_ – faces flanking her. “You won’t leave me?” she asks softly, the meek question coming out as if from a child.

Natasha squeezes her hand, capitulating to Steve’s words when they tumble quickly from his lips, beating her to the punch. “Of course not. We’re not going anywhere. We’re gonna help you with… whatever you need.”

She keeps her head ducked, looking up at him with a shy countenance. “Whatever I need?”

The corner of his mouth tugs up into another lopsided grin. “I moved across the hall from you for a reason, Tess.”

There’s an almost mischievous twinkle to her eye when she asks him, “Will you put together the crib?”

He nods, full smile blooming. “Of course I will.”

“And the mobile?” she goes on, perking up a bit and losing the nervous air. “There are so many little parts. I looked at it and just… gave up.”

He nods. “No problem.”

“And the changing table?”

A thick, sincere laugh burbles out of him. “So basically you want me to build you a nursery?”

“You said _whatever I need._ ”

He nods again. “You’re right. I did.”

“And… maybe…” She trails off, turning her attention first to Natasha, connecting with her eyes in a seemingly knowing way, then back to Steve. “I don’t like being scared,” she admits, the words spilling out of her in a jumbled heap. “I don’t like… admitting it.”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he declares, unsure what else to say as he gives her shoulder a soothing squeeze.

She shakes her head dismissively. “No. Childbirth is… scary,” she breathes out simply. “And I’m… scared. Of doing it.” Her gaze bounces back to Nat’s. “Even if this is all… even if this is just a _scare_ , and everything turns out fine… I still… I’m still…” Her eyes blink swiftly shut, lids pinching tightly against the awful pressure of having to speak the words. “I don’t want to do it alone. I _can’t_ do it alone.”

“Did you really think you’d have to?” she asks, a hint of surprise – a hint of _hurt_ – in her voice. Tessa opens her eyes and looks back up at her, feels her fingers wind tighter around her own as she goes on to say, “There was never a chance that you’d be doing _any_ _of this_ alone.”

She nods slowly, thoughtfully, her expression softening as some of the worry and fear begins to slip away. She turns to Steve, a bit of reluctance bubbling in her stomach as she trains a hopeful stare on him, locking onto his crystal blue eyes to ask, “Will you be there too?”

He hesitates for just a breath of a moment, something inside screaming at him – maybe laughing? – telling him that he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. But the fact remains that she’s one of his best friends… the only _best friend_ he has left. And she was there for him – all those years ago, as he came out of the ice – when no one else was. She became his friend – his family – when he discovered that nearly everyone he’d loved had left. She helped to usher him into a new and foreign and _scary_ world. So how could he possibly say no to helping her do the same?

“If that’s what you want,” he replies simply, squeezing her shoulder again, trailing his thumb in a firm, calming stroke as he does so. Then, with that same kind and reassuring smile that he’s offered her a million times before, he repeats the words she’s frankly desperate to hear. “Whatever you need.”


	10. Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm feeling generous this weekend - and because this is short and one of my absolute favorite moments so far - I give you another chapter! Hope you enjoy!!

_Wakanda, before:_

The gentle chirps of birds, soft rustle of leaves on the trees, and far-off, nearly _constant_ naying of goats all sound in her periphery as Bucky lingers in the open doorway to slip off his boots. She waits, a quick trill of excitement shooting up her spine as she shifts nervously on the balls of her feet, absently stirring the pot on the stove as a million and one thoughts flit through her mind.

“What is all this?” he asks with a lilt and a gentle laugh, his soft footfalls making just the slightest noise – a learned behavior after too many instances of his extreme stealth causing her to jump out of her skin – as he turns the corner into the kitchen.

Tessa tosses a glance over her shoulder to catch him – filthy and sweaty and _hot_ – gliding across the room towards her. She turns back to the stove, brow furrowing and lips pursing tightly as she stares down at the mush in the pot. “Supposedly… risotto,” she mutters blankly just as he presses into her back.

“Risotto?” he chuckles, arms lazily winding around her middle, fingers carelessly slipping beneath the hem of her shirt.

She squirms at his touch, the light brush of his mud-stained fingertips sending a chill across her body and causing a bright, expectant warmth to pool in her gut. “Stop it,” she laughs, shoving her hips back into him. “You stink.”

His hands refuse to move, long, lithe fingers sneaking further beneath her top, tickling her flesh for a lingering moment before splaying wide over her naked center. “You like my stink,” he teases thickly, breath hot in her ear.

She cranes her head to the side, the movement so natural, so effortless, and he begins to trail tiny kisses down her neck. “If I burn this, I’m blaming you,” she mutters vaguely, right hand still stirring the pot as her left moves to slowly peel his hands away from her middle. He lets out a soft, disgruntled groan when she finally manages to tug away his fingers, ending his touch with a quick pinch to her side that causes her to yelp. “Go shower!”

“Alright,” he laughs out. “Alright,” again as he slowly backs away, eyes never leaving the stunning – and oddly domestic – sight before him. His forehead crinkles a bit, head cocking to the side. “Not that I’m complaining, but why are you cooking?”

She shrugs, eyes focused on the nearly done dish in front of her. “Just thought it’d be nice. Besides, Wanda _challenged_ me with this recipe. Said I couldn’t do it.”

He snickers from behind. “She only does that to egg you on, get you to do what she says.”

“I know,” she sighs out. “And yet it works. Every damn time.” She pivots slowly to look at him, brow raised high. “Weren’t you going to clean up? You’re covered in _goat_.”

“I’m covered in everything, baby,” he utters with an exhausted intonation. “Cleared out the back fields finally.” Then, curiosity still etched across his face, “I’m surprised you made it back before dark. Usually have to drive in and haul your ass back home myself when you’re in the lab with Shuri.” A sudden wave of concern emanates off of him, licking at the back of her neck as she turns to flip off the stove. “Everything okay?”

There it is, a worried tone to accompany the anxious energy.

“Fine,” she shrugs.

“You tired? Feeling sick?” he asks, approaching her again, this time with an uneasy scowl on his face.

She sets the pot off to the side and blows out a long, deep sigh before turning to face him. “I wasn’t planning on working today,” she says simply. “I just went in to get the results.”

Ah, the results.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his head dipping in a slow, pensive nod. _The results._ From the genetic testing that she _insisted_ they do. Testing that _he_ insisted meant nothing. What did it matter if their baby turned out to be a mutant? Would they love him any differently? Would it change at all how they felt? And what if markers showed from the serum? She and Shuri both admitted that they likely wouldn’t be able to discern how any of that would affect the pregnancy or the baby’s development anyway… so why would knowing even matter?

But just _knowing_ was always the key for Tessa. She simply had to _know_.

“So…” he breathes out, word trailing off to nothing.

She leans her hip back into the kitchen counter, gives him a questioning – almost challenging – stare. “You want to know?”

His lips part, brain still mulling over what to say. He _does_ want to know. For as much of a fight as he put up about it initially, as much as he insisted that none of it mattered and she was just creating something else to get worked up over, _now_ he wants to know. But… what if knowing does change something? Or… everything?

She spins away – taking his silence for a hesitant _yes_ – and moves over to the opposite corner of the room, grabbing a small package from the countertop there before turning back to him. But she doesn’t look his way, her eyes remaining trained instead on the thin box in her hands. “How much do you want to know?” she asks, voice small.

“What do you mean?” Another wave of nervous energy prickles her senses, causing her to glance up, take in the worried knit of his brow. His gaze ticks down to the box. “What’s that?”

A deep, low breath pulls from her chest. “Wash your hands at least,” she says, motioning with the package towards the sink. He steps over and flips on the water, scrubs away the dirt and mud – and a bit of blood from some unexpected thorns – from his hands, his forearms, up to his elbows until his ruddy, tanned flesh is nearly pink and the gold inlay atop his vibranium arm glows in the low light of the kitchen.

He turns back to her with an expectant gaze, brows tugging questioningly together when he takes in the nervous way she’s gnawing at the corner of her mouth. “What?” he asks, tone a bit heated, a bit hasty. “What is it?”

Her gaze falls, directed once again at the box in her hands. And her lip pops loose from between her teeth. “You said you wouldn’t care… one way or the other,” she reminds him softly. “Enhanced. Mutant. _Normal_.” She lets out a lazy sigh and pulls her eyes back up to meet his. “Boy. Girl…”

He nods. “Course not. As long as everything’s… good. As long as it’s healthy.” He quirks a tentative look. “And… is it?”

“Yeah,” she breathes out softly. “Everything’s good… healthy.”

“Okay,” he drawls, eyes pleading with her to go on.

She clears her throat – “No _obvious_ markers from the serum” – and tries for a casual shrug. “But it could still… there could still be effects.”

“Okay,” he repeats patiently. “You mentioned that already. That you might not be able to tell anything.”

A quick nod. “Yep.” And an almost shy duck of her head. “But the X-gene… that was _obvious_.”

It’s no surprise really. Not a shock, nor a disappointment. But it is… something. Knowing that _now_ in this unstable and intolerant world, they were going to have to navigate the perils of raising a mutant… knowing that _he_ , as a _dad_ , was going to be responsible for keeping that child safe and likely hidden, and not knowing at this point – because what will his powers be? And what if he _looks_ different from everyone else? – if that’ll even be possible. Well, that is _something_.

He thinks back to the one and only time he met Dr. Moira MacTaggert, back when Tessa was still missing – kidnapped, tortured, dying. He thinks about what she said to him just before they parted, just after he’d told her that no, the two of them didn’t have any children. Not then. Not yet.

_Children are a blessing, you see… But_ mutant _children are a curse I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy._

“Is that…” Tessa starts, voice sounding so painfully nervous – distant, even – as it pulls him from his awkward reverie. “Is that… okay?”

He looks up at her, locks onto her deep green eyes, and huffs out a sudden, incredulous breath. “Baby,” he mutters, closing the small distance between them with a single large step. “Of course it’s _okay_. I mean…” He reaches out and lays his hands on her wrists, wraps his fingers in a loose grip around them. “I know it might be… hard. But…” A slow smile spreads across his face, sets the corners of his eyes to crinkle. “If our kid is anything like you… _okay_ doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about it.”

The corners of her mouth tick up into a small, nervous smile, a slight, rosy blush peppering her cheeks. “Okay.”

He shifts before her, glancing down and loosening his hold on her wrist to graze his flesh fingers over the box. “So… what’s this?”

The smallest, airiest laugh bubbles out of her. “Oh, this is from Shuri,” she says, shoving the package forward into his waiting hands. She expertly avoids his eyes, the slight flush blossoming now down to her neck. “For you.”

“For me?” He lightly fingers the box, turning it over carefully before thumbing the top off and peering inside. Atop a layer of tissue paper lies a small card that says simply, _Train the White Pup well_ , the reference to his new Wakandan moniker causing him to roll his eyes and grin in tandem. He tucks the card into the side of the box and peels away the paper, brows pinching in confusion when he’s met with what appears to be… jewelry. He reaches in and plucks three small, silver rings from the box, inspects them closely for a moment, and then looks up with a bewildered expression. “I’m lost.”

Tessa breathes out an easy chuckle and takes the pieces from him. “They’re neck rings,” she says. “Child size.”

“What?” issues from him in a confused grunt.

“She thought it was funny,” she says with a shrug. “Said Wakanda could have their first _pale_ member of the Dora Milaje. With mutant powers and maybe some super soldier abilities…” she trails off before offering another quick shrug. “She suggested that you begin training her as soon as possible.”

His eyes shift slowly back and forth between the rings and her gaze, utter bafflement still playing on his face. “What?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s joking.”

“I don’t…” he mutters, still fingering the box. The little card falls flat into the empty bottom. _The White Pup_. “It’s… this is for…” And _then_ he gets it. His bright blue eyes blow wide, parted lips bobbing absently as a thick breath catches in his chest. “For… _her_?” he asks, gaze traveling down to his wife’s middle.

She nods, once again, biting at her bottom lip in jumpy anticipation.

“Her?” he asks again, eyes shooting up to Tessa’s.

Another nod. Another nervous smile. Then… another faltering of her features as she watches his face slip into an oddly unreadable mask. “Is… is _that…_ okay?”

His countenance breaks, shatters like clay and gives way to an almost astonished expression of pure joy. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t nod nor gesture at all. He simply thrusts himself forward, shoving her – gently, of course, and causing a quick, light laugh to spill out of her – into the counter behind as he devours her in a torrid, crushing kiss.


	11. Bucky's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST! I tried to infuse some humor in here to cut down on the angst, but I'll be honest, I even made myself cry with this chapter. So... enjoy?

_New York, after:_

The next few weeks go surprisingly well. Tessa is released from the hospital after just a couple of days, her bloodwork looking normal and pressure back to a reasonable level. “But you’re done with work until this little one comes,” Dr. Montgomery tells her as she checks her out. “I’m not _explicitly_ putting you on bedrest, but I am telling you to take it easy and avoid any stress.”

“You might be sending me home with the wrong people,” she mutters vaguely as Natasha rolls her eyes beside her.

The redhead – well, blonde with ever-emerging red roots _redhead_ – waits until she’s settled into the backseat of the car with Tessa, knee to knee, to smile slyly and inform her that, “Just because some doctor says you don’t need to be on bedrest, doesn’t mean I’m going to let you lift a damn finger. I hope you realize that.”

Tessa shoots her a disappointed look. “You gonna spoon feed me soup everyday, change out my bedpan?”

“If I have to,” she says with a shrug.

“You do realize that if you actually want to keep me in bed for the next few weeks, you’re going need to tie me up and break my ankles.”

“That can be arranged.”

Steve raises a brow as he glances at the pair in the rearview mirror. “What the hell are you two talking about?” he asks with a confused cadence.

Tessa meets his gaze in the reflection, a wicked smile tugging at her lips as she declares simply, “Sounds like a movie night is in order.”

They watch _Misery_ later that evening, a horrified Steve sitting wide eyed on the edge of the overstuffed corner chair throughout nearly the entire thing, even as the two women curl around each other on the sofa and doze. It had been a rough few days after all, filled with worry and fear. And while Steve had ducked out for big chunks of time to go work on transitioning the guestroom in the apartment to a nursery, Natasha had never left Tessa’s side, barely slept either as she kept her company through the anxious insomnia that ensued.

Now though, back at home – and it had already been decided, much to Tessa’s chagrin, that this would be Natasha’s home too until, well, until she decides to leave – now, the seemingly unflappable spy who had been doing her very best to hide her steady unraveling, is finally able to sleep.

Perhaps it’s the fond amusement that swells within her, warming her from the inside out as she watches Steve squirm like a captivated little boy, absently nibbling at popcorn in the darkened living room as he becomes more and more engrossed in the movie. Or maybe it’s the way that Tessa’s fingers glide lazily through her hair, occasionally reaching beneath and lightly scratching at her scalp in an oddly soothing scrape. Or it could be the reassurance granted by every shift and flutter from her little _kiska_ , the baby dancing beneath her palm in a subtle stir that barely even seems to register to her mother anymore, as she too begins to drift.

Whatever the cause, Natasha – for the first time in a long time – actually _sleeps_.

And it’s a good thing too, because Steve puts her to work immediately the next morning, demanding she finish the edging in the newly light pink nursery and paint the trim once she’s done. “You’re always saying your hands are the steadiest around,” he croons as he prepares to bounce out the front door, eager to escape her complaints in lieu of taking a run and doing some errands.

“I meant when I shoot. Or fight. Or kill.”

He shrugs. “Same difference.” She gives him a cutting, dangerous look, merely earning a chuckle from him in response. “I’ll bring you back a latte for your trouble,” he says as he zips up his jacket. “Just… keep her out of there. I don’t want her breathing in any paint fumes.”

She narrows her eyes. “You think I’m an idiot?”

He smirks, gaze gliding up and ticking over her head as he spies Tessa – bedraggled clothes and wild hair flopping out of a tangled bun – sneak into the nursery. “I think you’re already falling down on the job,” he says before turning and ducking out the door.

She shakes her head wearily and makes her way to the room, lingers in the doorway, arms crossed as she leans against the jamb, face filled with a mixture of both mirth and reprimand as she looks down at the heavily pregnant woman sitting cross-legged on the floor. “What are you doing?”

Tessa doesn’t even glance up, too intent on organizing the pieces of wood in front of her, laying the slats out per the instructions sitting in her lap. Her expression curls, nose wrinkling as she stares down at the plethora of differently sized pieces. “I’m putting together a crib.”

Natasha pushes off the frame and glides over. “No, you’re not,” she breathes out, extending a hand and waiting for her friend to take it.

She looks up at her with a curious expression, not the glare that Nat had been expecting, but not exactly a yielding guise either. “I’m bored.”

She wiggles her fingers in front of her. “I don’t care. Steve said he’d put that together. And, frankly, I think it’s safer that way.”

“I am a trained scientist,” she announces with more than a hint of disdain. “You don’t think I can build a baby bed?”

She bites back the laugh building in her chest and lets loose a crooked smile. “Do I need to remind you about the desk from Ikea?” she asks. “Should I show you the pictures from the bonfire… the funeral we had to give it after you got so angry that you splintered the top into pieces?”

And there… there is the vicious glare that Natasha had been waiting for.

“Come on,” she says with a lilt as she reaches down and wraps her fingers around Tessa’s wrist. “I have to finish painting in here.” She hauls her up with a bit of a groan, the brunette’s glare narrowing perilously at the noise.

“Are you calling me fat?” she asks pointedly, once back on her feet.

At that – both the ridiculous accusation and the pure vitriol in the woman’s eyes – she lets out the laughter that’s been tickling at her throat. “Get out of here, mama,” she spouts, giving Tessa a little shove. “Go read a book or watch a movie or… do something that, pretty soon, you won’t have any free time to do.”

She rolls her eyes and slowly slinks across the room, stopping in the doorway and leaning up against it much like Natasha had just moments before. “Everything I want to do is stuff I’m not _allowed_ to do,” she pouts, folding her arms awkwardly over her middle.

“Like what?” Nat asks as she positions a ladder in the corner and grabs the edging brushes.

Tessa shrugs. “Eat sushi. Jump on a trampoline.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Take a long, hot bath. Work.” Her gaze falls down to the floor, eyes homed in on her heavily socked foot as it stretches out and toes absently at a paint roller left on the floor. “Have sex.”

Natasha chooses to ignore that last one, instead changing the subject entirely as she pours out some paint into a tray. “Did you ask for _pink_ in here?”

She lets out a longwinded sigh and shrugs. “I told him I didn’t care.”

“I mean, it’s a _nice_ pink,” she mutters, climbing the ladder and dipping the brush into the paint before easily – and steadily – swiping along the top of the wall. “Kind of… blush?” She stops short and narrows her eyes, cocks her head as she stares at the lightly tinted wall in front of her. “It actually reminds me of your wedding dress,” she says, not even thinking about the ache those words might bring until her ears ring with a deep, bitter silence. She swivels a bit precariously, looks back at her friend to find a rather unreadable expression on her face as she too now studies the pink wall.

“It’s fine,” she says after a long moment of seeming contemplation. “I hadn’t really given much thought to the room at all. Not really.” Another shrug pulls at her shoulders and a deep frown tugs at her lips.

Natasha releases a long-held breath through her nostrils and turns back to the task at hand. “I guess it feels a little old school, opting for pink… for a girl.” She shrugs as well, reaching blindly down to dip the brush again. “Of course, Steve is an old man, so I suppose _old school_ fits.”

Tessa continues to loom in the doorway for a moment more, watching intently as her friend fills the gaps at the top of the pretty pink wall. “Old school,” she repeats blandly, breathily. Then, barely a whisper as she ducks her head and unfurls her arms from around herself, “Probably the exact color James would’ve picked.”

000

The day she’s born is rather unremarkable.

It’s just another day, really. Deep in December, frost tickling at the corners of the windows, gray clouds hanging low in the sky. There’s something about the normalcy of it all – the collected quality Tessa has as she sits idly on the sofa and times her contractions, casually cracking jokes to distract herself from the pain; the relaxed demeanor that Natasha takes on, making tea and humming to herself while they wait – that causes Steve’s gut to clench, his stomach to roil.

“I want you to know,” Tessa states frankly, her voice taking on an edge as she breathes through a fading contraction. “If either of you sneak a peak at my vagina, I will end you.”

“Noted,” Nat says as she drops down beside her and offers her a bit of tea.

“I gotta say,” Steve mutters, straining to keep his voice light as he gazes out at the cold, empty city streets below. “I was a little worried we might have to drag you to the hospital kicking and screaming.”

“There’s still time for her to freak out,” Natasha chimes with a sly intonation.

Hot breath fogs the window before him, clouding his view of the outside. He turns and leans his back against the cold glass, relishes the stinging _burn_ that filters into his too-tight shoulders as he does so. He offers up a strained, closed-lip smile to the women on the couch. “I just don’t want to have to deliver her in the car on the way there,” he says, working so hard to maintain the lighthearted mood they’d managed to build.

Tessa’s forehead scrunches, brows knitting tightly together. “I’d go check in now if they’d let me. Believe me, the _last_ thing I want is for either of you to…” The words filter off to nothing for a brief moment as she cringes against another contraction. Her lips curl, head shakes viciously, as though she might be able to fling the irritating pain away. “You’re not qualified anyway,” she mutters finally, sounding almost angry… mostly at the simply _rude_ way her body had been treating her for the last few hours. “And I might be a doctor, but I’ve never actually delivered a baby. And I’m sure as shit not gonna start with my own.”

Steve pushes off the window and strides over to the couch, glances over her shoulder at the stopwatch app open on her phone. “I don’t know,” Natasha intones casually, catching his brooding countenance from the corner of her eye. “Steve could probably do it. How many books on childbirth have you read over the last few weeks?” she asks, cocking a teasing brow his way.

He shrugs. “Enough. Gotta be prepared.”

“ _Prepared_ ,” she murmurs with a scoff before letting out a light laugh and shaking her head fondly. “This isn’t a mission, Steve.”

He stares down at her, levels her with a pointed look, a raised brow. “Isn’t it? Operation _Baby_.”

Tessa rolls her eyes and leans back into the cushions. “How about Operation _Please No Episiotomy_?”

He winces. “God, I wish I didn’t know what that was.”

Nat snickers again before stating simply, “Operation _Happy Birthday_.” And then tacking on with a crafty grin, “Little Natasha.”

“Okay, look,” Tessa interrupts swiftly, pulling herself upright and settling a stern stare on her friend. “I am the one running this _mission_ , so you better do as _I_ say.” She turns her pointed gaze on Steve, catches the slight tick of his lips as the corner of his mouth rises into a crooked, amused grin. “You,” she says, voice deep and commanding. “Your number one priority is keeping _her_ away from the birth certificate. Got it?”

Natasha shrugs and blows out a speedy breath before humming, “Too late. He’s already on board. It’s been decided. Her name is Natasha _Stephanie_ Barnes.” She sets aside her tea and looks down at Tessa’s middle, places a warm – _hot_ , even, thanks to the steaming mug – palm near her ribs and leans in close to whisper, “And we can’t wait to finally meet you.”

Yes, strange but true, the day she’s born is quite unremarkable.

It shouldn’t be, but it is. And that’s what hits Steve the hardest. Something in him had been expecting the day to be… big. Either a tumultuous, tear-filled time of guilt and anger and regret. Or a beautiful day full of new life and new light and reminders that his best friend is still here, still with him, even if only in part. Or an odd and confusing and bittersweet mix of the two.

But what it really is – this day that Bucky’s baby girl is born – is hours of sitting and waiting, first at home and then at the hospital. Hours of looming in the corner of that sterile, pale blue room while Natasha sits curled around Tessa on the bed, laughing as they talk over the old romantic comedies they’d been watching and rewatching for years. It’s hours of him impatiently tapping his foot, eyes trained on the monitors that show both heartbeats – _of both your girls_ – steadily thrumming. It’s hours of fetching ice chips and updating Tony and Bruce from afar… and expertly avoiding eye contact with Tessa.

It isn’t until Natasha leaves for a bit to go get some food – somewhere around hour eight of slowly building contractions – that he finally _looks_ at the laboring woman in the bed. Finally smiles – albeit sad and mournful – and issues out the only words he can think to ask, “How’re you doing?”

The last thing he had said to her – up until this very moment – was a soft murmur of, _I wish he was here_ as they were getting her checked in. And the look in her eyes had him kicking himself ever since.

She glances over at him now – her face sullen and drawn, changed on a dime from the light laughing expression shared with Natasha when she was still here – and shrugs. “Epidural, man,” she mutters plainly.

A small snicker sneaks through his lips. “So you really don’t feel _anything_?”

Another shrug, her eyes ticking away from his just long enough to look down at her own taut middle, the muscles tightly constricting even as they speak. “I feel it… it just doesn’t hurt.” Her gaze shifts over to the wide window across the room. “Strange to not hurt,” she murmurs, almost whispers. “I really though this would _hurt_.”

He follows her gaze, stares out the window himself, out at the flickers of light, just popping on now that the sun has begun to set. The city has been so _dark_ these past months, a languid, silent slumber stretching across the city that never sleeps. “It’s gonna snow,” he states softly, catching sight of the thick, white clouds looming low on the horizon. She sighs and twists her head back towards him. He gives her another small, crooked smile. “You love the snow.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks, her voice low and slow.

He nods, moving towards the bed and taking a hesitant seat on the very edge. “Of course.”

“I never _really_ thought he wouldn’t be here.” Her eyes shift down once more to her belly, focusing not on the sight of it, nor the fetal heart monitor atop, but on her hands… fingers tightly knotted, pulling and twisting in a nervous habit that had plagued her for years.

She looks at her ring finger – barren, devoid of the emerald and the platinum band that rest now on a chain around her neck, her fingers getting too swollen to allow the rings just over a month ago. Oh, how she cried when forced to take them off… shutting herself in her room and slinking to the floor by the bed, grasping and pulling and tugging at the quilt atop it – the one that _he_ had bought for them those years ago – gripping it tight to her chest, shoving it into her mouth to smother the deafening sobs that she was desperate to hide.

Steve sees the anxious action, the violent tugging and stretching of her fingers, and he reaches out on impulse to take ahold of her right hand, struggling for a just moment to separate those tightly twisted fingers, almost laughing to himself at her stubbornness – even with such a small thing – as he hears a slight, disappointed moan pull from her chest when he succeeds. “What do you mean?” he asks gently, folding her small, clammy hand up into his.

She doesn’t look up, her gaze remaining downcast and far off. “When I first got pregnant, I got scared. Really scared.” She pulls in a deep breath, releases it in the smallest, airiest chuckle. “I made him promise me everyday – _multiple_ times a day – that he’d be there. No matter what.”

The responses varied, depending on the day. If asked in the morning, as sleep still lingered between them, weighting his lids and limbs, he’d simply pull her close, tight to his chest and murmur, _Always_. Or, _I’m not going anywhere_. Or, _I promise_. If it had been a particularly rough day for her – filled with morning sickness or cramps or too much fatigue – he’d crack wise, try to pull a smile from that beautiful face. _Where would I go? Who else would have me?_ If it had been a particularly rough day for _him_ , the jokes might turn. _Keep up your pouting and I’ll take off right now. If you don’t stop attacking me, I’ll tap in Steve. How’d you like to give birth in a room with_ him _instead?_

Her eyes begin to water as she recalls that last one, and the deep chuckle that pulled from Bucky’s chest after the threat had been made.

“He’d be here if he could,” Steve says, his soft, deep – thickly _pained_ – voice pulling her from the reverie.

She looks up at him, eyes dark and glassy. It’s been days since she’s slept – he knows this. More than just physical discomfort keeping her from rest as the time pulled near. “I know,” she states simply. Then, shaking her head slowly, lazily. “It’s not… it’s just…” She pulls in a deep breath alongside a wince as a particularly heavy contraction grips her, and her fingers wrap tightly around Steve’s hand, his own gripping more in response.

“Everybody leaves,” she says after a moment, once the pressure dissipates. “That’s how it’s always been for me. But the truth is, he told me _so many times_ that he’d _never_ leave… and, I don’t know… I think I started to believe him. Because every time I got scared and he told me _again_ that he’d be there – be _here_ – no matter what… I… I calmed down.” She shrugs absently, small sniffle escaping as her eyes fall down to her hand, clasped tightly in Steve’s. “I believed him,” she mutters again, eyes homing in on the long, lean fingers of this _other_ man… heart longing to see and feel those of her husband instead.

“I’m sorry, Tess,” snakes out of him, a whisper and a groan and a confession all in one. “I’m so sorry.”

She nods, still not looking up, and sniffles again before reaching up with her free hand and swiping – almost violently – at the tracks of felled tears along her cheeks. “Yeah,” she says, tone suddenly resigned, a bit harsh even. “Me too.”

000

When she finally comes – after nearly sixteen hours of labor, almost two of pushing alone – and cracks through the sleepy silence of this new and desolate world with her powerful cry, Steve almost breaks.

Through it all, he and Natasha stay by Tessa’s side, holding her legs as she pushes, gripping her hands to offer strength in the moments in between. They take turns giving encouraging words – _You’re doing so great. She’s almost here. You’re awesome, Tess. You’ve got this._ – and share countless looks over the top of their struggling friend, silently reassuring each other that they too can do this.

But the moment those tiny wails fill the room, Nat abandons him completely, falling to Tessa’s side, burying her tear-filled face in the crook of her friend’s neck, left hand lingering over the baby’s back as if desperate – and afraid – to touch something so… real.

And Tessa – _God_ , Tessa – she is… stoic. Beautiful and enduring and _strong_. He takes a nervous step back, releasing her hand and watching as she so casually brings it up to cradle the newborn at her chest. Her eyes are filled with glistening tears, face a peculiar mix of disbelief and easy recognition as she stares past Natasha’s hair and into the squalling face of her daughter.

Bucky’s daughter.

The air in the room is almost too thick to breathe, Steve’s mouth gaping open as he attempts to gulp at it. “Would you like to cut the cord?” the doctor asks… asks _him_. And he very nearly chokes – on air or a sob or the desperately uttered, _yes_ , he’s not sure – as his wide eyes shift from the doctor’s outstretched hand to the squirming baby to Tessa’s face.

She nods, lips pinched firmly together, no words spoken, but a soft, tender _energy_ that he knows is her – is being given to him by her – flowing into him to calm his breathing and steady his hand as he does this _thing_ that he has no right to do.

Because she’s Bucky’s daughter.

They whisk the baby away to clean her up, get a weight – 6 lbs 2 oz – and a length – 18 inches – so _small_ , he can’t help but think. Natasha steps away to loom protectively over her in the corner. And Steve just watches.

He stays by Tessa’s side as she delivers the afterbirth – a thing that he hadn’t even known about until reading, cover to cover, the books she had given him – stepping closer and once again holding tightly to her hand. And he remains there as the doctor finishes cleaning her up, assuring her – he notes as her voice cuts through the fog – that everything looks good.

And through it all, he _watches_ the little girl in the corner… being cleaned and weighed and measured and evaluated. He watches as Natasha takes hold of her, hips slowly swaying as she cradles the baby close, tugging at the tiny purple hat, cooing at the bundle and whispering adorations and proclamations and promises that even he – with his enhanced hearing – can’t quite make out.

He watches Bucky’s daughter.

When the doctor and nurses leave, and Nat returns to her side of the bed, helping to prop Tessa up a bit with one hand while still cradling the baby with the other… when she hands the tiny burbling bundle over to her mother – who accepts her with a gentle, quiet sort of confidence – still, Steve simply stands, feet cemented in place, and watches.

“Do you want to hold her?” he hears, realizing only as his eyes slink up to connect with Tessa’s that he truly has no idea how long he’s been this way – how long the _world_ has been this way – hazy and timeless and oddly serene.

His brows scrunch together as he takes her in, this all-too-familiar face seeming somehow… transformed. There’s a gentleness in her features, a tenderness that he recognizes but _knows_ she tries so hard to conceal. It’s the softness – the vulnerability – that she always somehow equates with weakness. The look that used to wash quickly over her – before being swiftly stifled – every time he’d seen her faced with patching up one of them… one of the _family_. It’s the look he’d only ever seen left to linger when she gazed at Bucky. Now that sweet and genuine expression pulls at her eyes as they gingerly tick up towards him before settling back on the baby in her arms.

“I…” he hesitates for a moment, despite the fact that his feet inadvertently shuffle nearer, his arms shifting expectantly at his sides. “I don’t know.”

Natasha scoffs and smirks from across the bed, giving Tessa’s shoulder a little nudge as she says, “Just hand her over.”

And she does so, shifting uncomfortably – but enduringly pulling back the wince – as she offers the baby up. He hasn’t held a baby since 1943 – since he was on the road as Captain America and everyone kept shoving children and infants into his hands for awkward photo ops. But it feels, if not natural, at least… right.

He gazes down at the pale pink face, still scrunched and pinched in that new-to-the-world way, and he _looks_. He looks for signs of Tessa and quickly sees her nose – the thin, delicate raise and slope – popping out from between tiny, chubby cheeks. He runs his fingers gingerly up along the side of the baby’s face – marveling to himself at just how soft and warm and fragile her skin feels – before slipping them lightly beneath the little purple hat.

“So much hair,” he hears Nat mutter as he slides back the cap and softly pets the thick, dark wisps.

Both Tessa and Bucky have – _had?_ – the most beautiful, wavy, chocolate locks, so who exactly she got her mop from is anybody’s guess. Steve smiles to himself as he makes a mental note to keep an eye on how it grows out. If she winds up with unruly curls, her mother is to blame. If it falls in simple waves about her shoulders – just as Rebecca Barnes’ hair always did – then it’s clearly all Bucky.

The baby squirms in his grip, her tiny mouth popping quickly open, then shut, soft lips pulling into a precious pout. He tugs the hat back in place and smiles down at her, shifting his hand to dreamily run his thumb in a slow arc over her bottom lip. Then he lets the pad of his thumb fall – just a bit – down to the tiny divot in her chin.

Her mouth bobs open once again, and with it, her eyes. Heavy, tired lids pull up – _blink, blink_ – and he feels his grin stretch wider. “Good morning, angel,” he hears himself say, the words slipping lazily from his tongue as he slowly twists to-and-fro, rocking the gently waking baby. Her eyes blink once more, opening wide enough for him to see the brilliant blue hue of her irises. “G’morning,” he repeats, still swaying softly as he cradles her close.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, tight sobs stutter in his chest, and he swiftly leans down and hands the little girl back to her mother. He takes a step back, vision blurring, but not so much that he can’t see the sudden understanding in Tessa’s own tear-filled gaze – the absolute commiserative _pain_ in her expression – as she accepts the baby with a tight nod just for him.

He spins on a heel and races from the room, not at all surprised to hear nothing but silence follow him – no confused, concerned shouts nor pleas to stop – just sympathetic silence. He makes it to the very end of the hall, passing only empty rooms along the way – empty, just like every other building and home and _heart_ on this earth – before collapsing into a chair and letting the ache pierce through him, roll out of him, crash into the silent and empty space around him.

He cries thick, hard, wrenching sobs, his entire body writhing as his head falls heavily into his hands, shoulders drooping and shaking, chest heaving with the effort to simply breathe. He sputters and cries and wheezes, every bit coming out as a shock, an agonizing surprise that he can still feel. Still feel this _much_.

He didn’t cry like this when Bucky fell from the train all those decades ago, didn’t sob when he split into ash and slipped through his very fingers to be carried away on the Wakandan wind either. He’d held it together while packing up his and Tessa’s house and bringing his pregnant wife back home with him. He maintained a solid and steady composure when Thanos was killed… and all hope was lost. He’d barely shed a tear when the group of them – the _remnants_ – held a swift and silent memorial for all of their lost loved ones.

But _this_ … this is too much. It’s one thing for him to have to find a way in the world without his best friend by his side. Hell, he’d begrudgingly done it twice before already. And as hard as it’s been to watch Tessa suffer, to see her turn hollow and desolate before him, he’s known all along that her strength is solid enough to see her through. But the thought of that little girl – that tiny piece of _him_ with _his_ chin and lips and eyes – never seeing his bright, clever smile nor brilliant shining gaze… never hearing the tenor of his voice nor his deep and hearty laugh… never feeling the absolute love nor gentle touch that Steve _knows_ he planned to give to his little girl every damn day of her life.

It’s too much.

He closes his swollen eyes, teeth biting down into the side of his hand as he tries to regain control of his body. But all he can see as his eyelids flutter shut is a bleary image of himself… holding that precious baby girl as close as he possibly can. Holding her to his chest as it swells with a kind of love and longing and desperation he’d never felt before. Holding her as though she were his own.

But she’s not. She’s Bucky’s daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can see through your tears enough to type, I'd love to hear what you think... and as always, thanks so much for reading!


	12. Unique Flower

_Wakanda, before:_

“I can’t believe you actually _bought_ that,” she barks out with a snort. “I mean… Jamie, baby…” She finishes washing her hands, making a disgusted face when she gazes down and sees that mud is _still_ somehow caked beneath her fingertips. “It’s a _book_.”

His brow furrows as he plops down into a chair at the kitchen table, stares at the positively _huge_ book sitting before him, the torn mailer it came in in pieces beside it. “People don’t buy books anymore? We have a ton of books. You even said you hate reading on those… tablet things.”

She spins to face him, hip casually pressed into the edge of the sink as she raises a brow and suppresses a laugh, his lost expression looking just so damn precious. “A book of _names_? James, c’mon.”

He shrugs. “Every name I’ve suggested so far, you’ve shot down. Figured we needed some help.”

“Babe, there are websites and… I don’t know registries and shit that we could just look at for free.”

“It was ten dollars,” he mutters with an utterly unamused roll of his eyes. “And besides, I’m not convinced that you’re gonna agree to anything out there anyway. Or…” He picks up the book and looks at it almost suspiciously, definitely beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of possibilities clenched between his fingers. “Or anything in _here_.”

She issues out a loud scoff. “The only names you’ve suggested are ones that died out half a century ago.”

“That’s not true,” he argues, frown tugging at his features.

“Margret. Constance. Patricia,” she counts off on her fingers, pointed stare digging into him. “Esther. Lucille.”

Another eyeroll. Another impatient huff. “Girls are still named all of those. _And_ Rebecca,” he’s quick to point out, self-assured smirk rising as he states, “There were two different Beckys who worked at the compound. And they were both younger than you.”

“Okay,” she starts, raising a harsh finger in his direction. “First of all, do not point out to an admittedly irrational, overly hormonal woman in her thirties that _anyone_ on the planet is younger than her.” She ignores the slight snort of laughter that emanates from the man across the room and goes on to say simply, “And second, we’re not naming her after anyone.” A deep pout rolls over her face. “She’s her own unique flower.”

His bright blue eyes shine, joy and amusement both causing them to crinkle at the edges as he tosses out, “Rose?” He swallows down a rising chortle at her dirty look. “Lily? Daisy?”

Tessa rolls her eyes and chucks the hand towel she’d been clinging to – desperately working to rid her raw hands of the deep tint of clay and mud – at his head. “This is the first day I haven’t puked my guts out in weeks and you’re actively trying to make me throw up.”

He easily catches the towel, shoves it off to the side and cracks open the tome in his lap. “Then we’re going to the book.” He starts at the very beginning, silently pouring over the As with an almost disgruntled look on his face.

_Abigail?_

Nope, he definitely remembers a girl named Abby, no more than fifteen or sixteen when she first let his all-too-eager palms trace up beneath her shirt.

_Adele?_

Uh… no, Adele was in France – just outside of Paris, was it? – a university student turned Resistance worker turned wild animal in the sack.

_Alice?_

Oh, Alice was _sweet_. Sweet face. Sweet voice. Sweet… taste.

He clears his throat uncomfortably, a slight flush creeping up his neck as he continues to skip over names – _pages_ of names – in silence.

“Really?” she intones, hoisting herself up onto the countertop behind her. He glances up and sees an accusing brow raised high. “Not finding anything you like?” she mutters with a teasing cadence. “Or… are you finding too many _familiar_ names?”

He shakes his head dully and returns his gaze to the book. “Just don’t want a repeat of what happened when naming the goats.”

She lets out another loud scoff. “I don’t understand how you can _claim_ to still struggle with your memories, yet somehow you have locked away the name of _every single woman_ you ever dated.”

“Didn’t say I _dated_ all of them,” he mutters with a coy smirk, eyes remaining staunchly trained on the text before him.

“Gross,” she breathes out, disgusted grimace painting her face. “You _deserve_ to be the father of a daughter. I hope she’s fucking gorgeous… gets in trouble for chasing little boys and kissing them at recess, hits puberty at ten, has twenty-five-year-old men hitting on her before she even gets her driver’s license.”

The look he gives her is one of pure, unabashed _horror_ , wide eyes gleaming with shock, mouth hanging agape as he processes the words coming from his wife’s mouth. “ _Jesus_ ,” he mutters in a low, astounded voice. “How the hell can you say that?”

She shrugs blithely and shoots him a shit-eating grin. “Karma’s a bitch.”

His face is still pale, eyes still wide as saucers, as he shakes his head slowly back and forth and returns to the list of names, turning the page with slightly trembling fingers. It’s a moment before the sound of his own heart beating in his ears fades from a virulent pounding back down to a dull drone. That’s about the time a certain name catches his eye, midway down the page.

“Anna?” he suggests, hearing the steady thumping of her heels into the cabinets suddenly cease. He looks up and sees the self-satisfied grin washed clean from her face, loosely flopping legs now held staunchly in place as they dangle over the countertop. “You don’t really go by Anna, so it wouldn’t really be naming her after you.”

She seems to think on that for just a beat of a moment before letting out an almost weary sigh. “It’d be weird. Even just hearing the name… still feels weird to me.”

He shrugs, continues flipping through pages, glancing over names that are either – as Tessa had mentioned – too _familiar_ to him, or just too ugly or too ordinary or too… not right. “Ava?” he says finally, corners of his mouth tugging up a bit as he tests out the name, feels it roll over the tip of his tongue.

_Ava_. It reminds him of _Tessa_ … short and sweet, lovely and feminine.

“Did you just skip to the very end?” she bleats out, hopping down from the counter. “How many women have you dated with names that start with A?”

He ignores her little jibe, reading on instead, feeling a sort of… certainty rise as he does so. “It means _little bird_ ,” he breathes out before letting the name slip from his lips once more, “Ava.” He finally looks up at her, crooked smile painted on his face, a delicate conviction coloring his energy as it rolls softly into her. “It’s perfect.”

Her eyes narrow with a hint of suspicion, but she can’t quite hold back the tender smile breaking through her faux stern countenance. “Oh really?” she intones thickly. “Perfect, you say?”

“Didn’t we _just_ talk about this this morning?” he asks, slamming the book shut and dropping it to the table before rising and stalking towards her. He moves close, his toes mere inches from hers, voice dropping an octave as his hand too falls, fingertips dancing lightly over her middle. “Weren’t we _just_ talking about how she… flutters…” He leans in, his stubbled cheek grazing along her jawline, his palm pressing into the center of her abdomen. “Like a little bird?”

Her eyes remain narrowed, even as she easily bends to his will, her head tilting to the side as he begins to pepper her jaw with soft kisses, trailing them slowly down her neck the moment she gives him access. “You’re sure you don’t just have a thing for Ava Gardner?”

He chuckles into her, a hot huff of breath dancing along her clavicle. He pauses the perfectly paced pecks down her neck just long enough to utter, voice a low, deep hum, “Beautiful name for a beautiful dame.”

She pulls back and gives him an incredulous – though admittedly _amused_ – look. “Did you just call our daughter a _dame_?”

And again, he laughs – soft and relaxed, like music to her ears – as he wraps both arms around her and tugs her to his chest, drops his forehead down to hers. “Beautiful name for a beautiful _little bird_ ,” he states, single brow ticked high.

She rolls her eyes. “You just don’t want to have go through the whole alphabet,” she says then, her voice softening in tone and volume as she leans into him, a smile now creeping lazily over her face as well.

“Hey,” he announces, giving her a slight jostle as his arms drape loosely around her hips. “I bought the book. I’m ready to go through every name there is.” Again, his lips fall to her neck, making their way down to her collarbone. His tongue flicks carelessly out, catches the taste of salt left behind from the sweat that pooled there as she worked all morning in the sun. “Didn’t hear you reject it,” he murmurs into her, almost a challenge.

“Hm,” she hums out, supposedly thinking, but really just getting lost in his touch. “Ava,” she speaks, low and soft, feeling the bite of it at her lower lip, the breathy note as it slips past her lips. “Ava,” again… not hating it, but also not quite convinced. “Let’s call it a maybe.”


	13. Drained

_New York, after:_

She twitches and turns, rubbing the side of her face into the pillow as the thin veil of sleep slowly lifts away. There’s a steady, soft sound filtering over to her, just barely cutting through the silent air of the still-dark room. A slow, tender _shhhh_ … the slightest murmur that she has to strain to make out. _Shhh, baby doll. It’s alright._

Tessa’s lids languidly blink open, her bleary eyes narrowing in the pitch dark to see. There he is, looming over the cradle in the corner, holding tight to their baby girl – to _Ava –_ her tiny head nestled in the crook of his neck as he slowly sways back and forth. He turns, locks onto her eyes. “Go back to sleep, baby,” tumbles easily from his upturned lips as his hips continue to move in an easy, practiced rhythm. “I got her,” he whispers gently before dropping a lingering kiss to their daughter’s soft curls.

For a moment, Tessa is just as soothed as the baby in Bucky’s arms, just as warm and contented and heavy with sleep, sated by love and an unabating sense of security. Her lids drift slowly shut once again, face burrowing back into the pillow beneath her. He’s got her. He’s here. It’s all alright.

_It’s alright._

A shrill cry pierces through the room, the same she’s heard for days now, yet it still takes her by surprise. Her eyes fly open, wide and searching, as she launches herself upright, ignoring the postpartum pain _forever_ plaguing her body as she looks frantically over at the bassinet. There’s no one there. He’s gone.

He was never really here at all.

She chokes down the thick sob that threatens to burble up her throat, and drops her head to her hands for a lingering moment, just long enough to pull in a steeling breath before getting her feet beneath her and trekking the short distance to the desperate sounding baby.

“Okay,” she mutters to herself, letting out a small groan as she feels her breasts begin to leak. “Yeah,” she breathes out with a frown, reaching down to gather the squalling infant into her arms. “Yeah, it’s time to eat, I guess. Okay. Let’s do this.”

The talking helps. Somehow. She’d discovered this over the past week… really over the past few months, as she would lie awake in the middle of the night, speaking to her daughter who hadn’t yet been born.

She would tell her about her day, about work, about how angry she was that she couldn’t drink coffee.

She would tell her about the plans for the nursery – Uncle Steve’s plans really – and the kind of toys she was going to get her… books, clothes.

She would tell her about all the things that she _should_ be talking to her daughter about, as opposed to the lamenting woes spread over too many sleepless nights as she simply spewed out her worries and frustrations. She would relay stories about her and Bucky – _daddy_ – and their happier times. How they met, fell in love, spent a hellish week in the Maldives. She would tell her about her childhood, or what she could now remember of it. Of the people that her daughter would one day meet and love – Uncle Steve, Auntie Nat, Bruce and Tony… the talking racoon who seemed oddly enthusiastic about getting his little paws on a human baby. And of those she would never know but through stories and pictures.

_Sam would spoil you rotten. Feed you nothing but cookies. Tickle you every chance he got. Do_ anything _to make sure you never stopped smiling._

_Wanda would hold you_ so tight _, I’d have to fight her to get you back. You probably wouldn’t learn to walk until you were too heavy for her to carry around anymore._

_Shuri would wrap you in one of those sling things and carry you on her back all around the lab, teaching you the language of science before you could even catch onto English._

Of course, everyone says that you should talk to your baby all the time. Before she’s born, it’ll help her get used to your voice, build familiarity and help cement the bond. And once she’s here, hearing that familiar tone will help soothe her, make the transition to this new, big, scary world just that much easier.

But that was never why Tessa did it, not really. She talked to her before because the painful silence of those long, dark nights alone was unbearable. She talks to her now because it lets her mind focus on something other than the fact that, even with the baby right here in her arms, the nights are just as agonizingly dark and silent and lonely as they had been before.

“Okay,” she mutters blandly, dropping back to the edge of the bed and positioning Ava at her breast. She latches on immediately, one problem so many newborns have, never troubling this strong, hungry girl in the least. “Yeah,” Tessa sighs out, her heavy, tired eyes slowly slipping shut. “Appetite like your father.”

“But beautiful like her mother,” drifts effortlessly to her ear, his voice seeping all the way into her soul, thick and sweet like honey. She can almost _feel_ his heat beside her, his body pressed to hers, hip to hip, leg to leg, shoulder to shoulder. Can smell his scent – the cool crispness of Irish Spring soap mixed with a heady sort of musk that only ever seeped from _his_ pores. When her eyes blink open, there, lingering atop the soft cheek of their daughter, is his flesh fingertip, lightly tracing along her face as she suckles hurriedly away. “How did we make something so perfect?”

Tessa feels her stomach clench, a tight breath stammering up her closed-off throat. She dare not speak lest her own words wake her from this dream. But she can’t stop the tears that begin to surge forth, burning at her eyes, streaming down her cheeks, causing her entire body to tremble.

“Hey,” he says, dropping his hand from Ava’s face and moving it down to her knee. She can feel the heat from his palm, the squeeze of his fingers. His touch is so _real_ that it almost burns. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, concern filling his still-soft voice.

She shakes her head, too afraid to speak, and shifts closer to his warmth, his undeniable presence. His taunting ghost.

“Hey,” he says again, reaching up and taking tender hold of her chin, pulling her gaze to him. She blinks once, twice… more tears falling. He’s blurry and a bit indistinct, shadowy around the edges, fading into the darkness of the night. But he’s still… here. His bright blue eyes somehow manage to cut through, settling on her with such love. Adoration. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he tells her simply, reaching delicately up and swiping away the tracks of her tears. “Nothing to cry about.”

He smiles wide, eyes crinkling at the edges. And an almost desperate laugh pulls from somewhere deep inside her chest. “I… I’m… all alone.”

He shakes his head slowly, fondly. “No, baby. You’re not alone. I’d never leave you alone.”

“But…” she starts, her eyes blinking shut for just a fraction of a second.

“Tess,” she hears then, jolting suddenly. The warmth by her side is gone. The press of his fingers is gone. Her Jamie is gone. “Everything okay?” sounds again from behind.

She slowly opens her eyes and turns, sees Steve standing in the doorway, light from the hall breaking around him, causing her to squint. She gives him a swift nod, nothing more, no words. And she turns back to stare into the empty dark.

000

Those first couple of weeks are the worst.

Ava’s metabolism is… high. She wakes every two hours – like clockwork – screaming and squalling and _demanding_ to be fed. Nursing quickly becomes almost too much for Tessa to bear, the newborn draining her of milk and energy and patience in never-ending fifteen-minute increments.

She’d held no allusions leading up to this, no grand imaginings of a magical motherhood, filled with awe and joy and endless, bountiful blessings. She knew it would be hard. Without Bucky especially, she knew it would be hard. But this… it’s so much worse than she ever imagined.

She is _exhausted_.

Deep, dark circles permanently etch themselves beneath her eyes. Her limbs feel achy and weighted, to the point where even rising out of bed is at times too difficult to manage. When the baby sleeps, she too tries. But there’s always a cold emptiness that lingers when she curls up in her bed alone – that one remaining piece of Bucky that had been nestled within her for so long, now laying utterly _apart_ from her, across the room. It’s an emptiness that keeps her from falling into any sort of restful slumber. What sleep does come is usually so deep that rejuvenation is impossible and dreams – like those visions she had of Bucky and Ava in their first days home – are hardly able to penetrate.

Just once does she recall having a real _dream_. Just once does she remember her lids fluttering shut, the awful apparition she’d had that day – so long ago… of her own body being cleaved in two as she drained Thanos – playing out in her mind’s eye. The only difference being that, just before she feels herself fade away to nothing, there’s an odd fluttery sensation in her middle as the babe in her womb turns to a thick cloud of dust that shoots up and out of her barely parted lips.

She wakes coughing, choking, sputtering violently, Natasha at her side, soothingly patting her back.

She wakes tasting ash on her tongue, wishing it were blood instead.

When Ava lays at her chest, eagerly suckling, she cries… _hating_ herself for wanting so desperately to hand the baby off, to just get rid of her so that she might sleep. So that she might _hope_ to dream. So that she might split apart into dust and ash to be carried silently off by a temperamental wind.

Steve and Nat take turns staying on her couch at night. Oftentimes, they bring the baby to her, pulling her from the cradle with a coo and a sway when she wakes, and handing her off to be fed. Then taking her back before she can slide from her mother’s fatigued arms, burping her, changing her, rocking her back to sleep.

Pepper comes too – now heavily pregnant herself – to help out a few afternoons. She prattles on about getting practice and learning the ropes, but despite her light and fluid speech, her effervescent smile, Tessa can see the fear lurking within her eyes. Whether it’s fear for Tessa and Ava or fear for herself – that she too might experience such a _rough_ postpartum time – she doesn’t know. She honestly doesn’t care. About much of anything. She’s just too damn tired.

Brief moments of respite are broken – shattered – by petulant screams, each squall seeming to come just as Tessa’s finally able to close her eyes, desperate to drift off. “Why does she _hate_ me?” she finds herself crying out, free-flowing tears and exhausted sobs wracking her body as Steve goes to pluck Ava from the small cot in the corner. “I _love_ her. Why does she hate me?!”

Natasha slips beneath the covers beside her, pulling her to her shoulder and giving Steve a commanding look – _Wait_ , it says. _Keep rocking the baby. Give us a minute_.

“She doesn’t hate you,” she whispers into Tessa’s unkempt hair, holding her close, letting the hot tears seep into her sweater. “She loves you.” Her voice is soft and placid, etched with a practiced calm perfected over years of spy work, the constant threat of danger eventually making her cool to even the most trying moments. Her eyes follow Steve’s path as he slowly paces the room, pressing Ava to his chest to calm her cries as best he can, a look of sheer sorrow building on his face as Tessa’s whimpers bleed into her daughter’s.

“No,” she mutters, arguing with the woman propping her up, offering her strength. “How could she?”

Natasha shifts beside her, lets out a long, almost disappointed sounding breath as she lifts Tessa’s chin, wipes away a tear track with her thumb, and forces her to look into her eyes. “She loves you because you’re her mom. And because she’s felt your love for every minute of every day since she was conceived.”

More tears gather, lending a thick sheen to her dull green eyes. And she shakes her head, swallowing thickly before saying – cautiously admitting – “Not every minute. Not every day. Nat… no… sometimes… sometimes I think I… I… _hated_ her.”

“That’s not true,” Steve declares from the foot of the bed. Both women look towards him, catch the stern and stoic set to his shoulders, the firm planting of his feet. He stands before them as Captain America, sans shield, gripping instead a baby. Tactical uniform swapped out for a spit-up covered T-shirt and sweats. He raises a very serious brow, the expression an exact replica of the one he wore when dressing someone down after a mission gone wrong. Or having to correct someone in the field. He _corrects_ Tessa now in much the same way, his voice firm and sure as it bellows out over the top of a now-quiet Ava’s dark little head. “Fear and frustration and doubt, that’s all normal stuff to feel. That doesn’t mean there was ever a moment when you _didn’t_ love her.”

She watches him closely, the slight sway to his hips as he continues to idly rock the baby in his arms, the dark circles beneath his eyes – because he’d been here all along, him and Natasha both, helping her without ever being asked… nor thanked. She opens herself up, just a bit – so easy to go too far and get too lost in the energy of others when she’s this tired – and seeks him out.

Desperation. Grief. Love. It’s all so recognizable, the same pain and hope fighting constantly for control within her as well.

Ava begins to whimper again, after several long moments of silence. And Tessa reaches up to scrub away the tears, reaches out with both hands and waits for Steve to step near and deposit her carefully into her waiting arms.

The baby eats. Burps. Sleeps.

Tessa cries. Writhes. Grieves.

One day bleeds into the next, one week fading in a fog, wilting into another.

Eventually, she agrees to formula. Only after discovering that Ava hadn’t put on _any_ weight at all over her first two weeks of life. She cries at the pediatrician’s when they tell her. She cries on the way home, nestled in back with the car seat as Steve flies through the city, no traffic to slow them. She cries on the sofa when they return, dramatically choking out, “I’m killing her,” when Natasha asks what’s wrong, what happened.

Steve lets out a low sigh, dropping the bag of formula onto the counter and bringing the full pumpkin seat over to the couch, reaching in and gently plucking a sleep-heavy baby, cooing softly as he easily brings her to his chest, the motion now feeling like old hat. He slowly lowers himself to the chair off to the side. “She hasn’t put on weight, so we’re going to start supplementing with formula,” he explains coolly, tone slow and low to avoid disturbing the baby. “No one is _killing_ anyone.”

Natasha lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and she quirks a sly brow at Steve. “Remember this if you ever knock anybody up,” she tells him with a crooked smirk. “Super babies are _draining_.”

To everyone’s surprise, a quick, guttural laugh churns out of Tessa, the rumbling chuckle splitting through her tight sobs. “They really are,” she sputters out, the words spilling from her in an odd mix of mirth and sorrow.

Nat tries to bite back a genuine smile, holding it close as she teases her friend, gripping her knee and saying, “I don’t know why you ever agreed to this.”

She shakes her head, tears still streaming down her face, but a brightness to her eyes that no one has seen in weeks. “I don’t know either,” she admits, hiccups peppering her speech. “He said our babies would be as cute as the goats.”

Steve frowns, pulling his head back as he looks down at the infant on his chest. “Goats?” he questions thickly. “She’s way cuter than those goats.”

“It’s true,” Natasha nods, grin pulling tight across her face. “If that was all you were going for, mission accomplished.”


	14. Pancakes

_New York, before… years ago:_

“You’re so _warm_ ,” she mutters sleepily, swiping her nose along his naked collarbone as she shifts and curls deeper into him. “S’nice.”

He snakes his right arm around her, beneath her, pulling her close as he rolls slowly onto his back. The smallest chuckle builds in his chest, the vibration tickling her temple as she settles her head atop him. A smile creeps over her face when the soft, breathy titter leaves his lips and floats to her ear. “Glad you like it,” he deadpans, voice sounding almost as sleep-logged as her own.

“Mm hmm,” she hums, tilting her head and popping a few lazy kisses down the length of his breastbone. “For now, at least. Come summer it might be unbearable.”

Another lazy chortle, the quiver it sets off in his chest beneath her quickly becoming her most favorite feeling in all the world, outweighed only perhaps by the deep rumble that builds within his ribcage once infused with his voice. “So you’re just gonna toss me aside like some cheap pair of slacks once summer hits?”

Tessa pulls herself up onto her elbow, tilting her face so that the tip of her chin rolls to the center of his naked chest. “A cheap pair of slacks?” she questions, nose wrinkling in amusement. “How old are you again?”

He smiles crookedly as he brings his flesh fingers up to brush away her messy curls, idly fingering a thick chunk of hair, pinching it between his pads as he places it tenderly behind her ear. “Too damn old for you, sweetheart,” he muses as his bright blue eyes stare down at her, the stream of early morning sunlight peaking in through the curtains turning them a wonderous cerulean.

“Funny story,” she says with a lilt, single brow cocking high. “I’ve actually never dated anyone my own age.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, intrigue pulling at his features.

She shrugs – “Guess I’ve got a type.” – and settles back into him so as to _feel_ his laughter on her cheek once again. Slowly, the rumble fades and gets replaced by the firm and steady _thump-thump, thump-thump_ that had lulled her to sleep the night before. Her eyes drift closed, breaths spilling in a slow, even rhythm as her entire body relaxes in his hold… relaxes in a way she’s honestly never experienced before.

Tessa’s default setting has always been _go, go, go_. From the moment she wakes in the morning – if she doesn’t keep herself going all night, that is – she sets her mind to race by cataloging all the things needing to be done that day, kicking herself for everything she couldn’t manage to finish the day before, ruminating on all the things that surely _won’t_ get done today either. Then she ratchets her pulse up to a pace that matches, setting her heart aflutter with a strong cup of coffee and a shit ton of sugar, and prepares herself to _go_.

Race out the door and off to the lab. Scurry about the clinic. Take on too much – always – but never admit it. Focus, focus, focus, always staying _on_.

Her shoulders tug high and tight, neck aches from bending over the microscope, inclining at the computer, snapping upright to wake with a start when the exhaustion turns overwhelming and her head nearly thunks atop her desk.

A run… a literal run with Steve in the morning. A figurative run throughout the rest of the day. Every day. Run, run, run. _Move_ … until she drops.

Relaxation, tranquility, calm… these things have always been foreign concepts to her, always been things she’s had to either deny or _force_ in an artificial manner. By sucking in the Professor’s soothing energy to try and calm her own mind as a child. Or accompanying Natasha on spa days after the spy returns from particularly rough missions. Popping one of the dozens of tiny Xanax rattling about in a bottle in her nightstand. Drinking bourbon… tequila… vodka… _wine_.

But somehow this giant man beside her has become the most effective drug of all. Somehow, in just the few short months they’ve been… whatever they are – dating, fucking, _together_ – she’s finally begun to understand what it means to relax. Here, in his hold, safely tucked into the warm sanctuary of _him_ , surrounded by his own tranquil, sleep-stained energy, she can hear the lazy rhythm of her own deep breaths echoing in her ears. She can _feel_ the newfound weight of her limbs, resting heavily atop the firm mattress, tugging her shoulders low and letting her vertebrae, for once, languidly stretch apart. And, for the first time in recent memory, she’s overcome with the overwhelming desire to just stay right here and not move, not run, not _go_ anywhere at all.

“What are you thinking about, baby?” he asks, his deep tenor pulling her from her reverie, causing her eyes to lazily blink open. His fingers continue to run lightly through her hair, tugging a bit every now and then as he wraps a loose curl round his finger.

She lets out a small hum, turning her face to once again press her lips into the warm flesh of his chest. She gathers just enough strength to flop those heavy, too relaxed limbs – her right arm and right leg – over the top of him, winding around him, curling herself closer as he lets out a soft _oomph_ and chuckle. “I like when you call me that,” she says with a yawn. “Never thought I would. But from you… I like it.”

“Baby?” he asks, stiffening only slightly when she begins trailing her fingertips along the plates of his metal arm. It still bothers him when she touches it. Still _scares_ him. But every time she lays that splendidly gentle touch atop it – _gentle_ , like no one else who _ever_ touched that arm had been – every time she idly taps out a rhythm on the metal – _casual_ , like no other contact had ever been – every time she caresses it, lovingly, longingly, like it’s somehow _beautiful_ … every time, he feels himself grow more at ease with the contact.

“Mm hmm,” she replies, a barely there utterance as she burrows closer.

He tugs her body a little higher, top of her head tucking just beneath his chin. “Baby,” he mutters into her hair, the word – the name, _her_ name – pulling from him in a single, raw breath. He kisses her head, lips pressed to her curls, breath hot on her scalp. “Baby,” he drones again. And again, “Baby…” each time deeper and more haunting than the last. He brings his metal fingers down to the leg she has draped over him, down to her silky smooth calf. Then up, up, up, skimming in an airy touch all the way to her thigh. “Baby,” he whispers in her ear just as the cool, metallic digits slide slowly beneath the sheet and leave a subtle press at the small bruise he’d pinched into her ass just the night before.

She wriggles in his grasp, giggles as the delightful tickle traces back down her leg again. His fingers hit a uniquely sensitive spot just atop her Achilles and it causes a bark of laughter to shoot out of her… and her heel to rocket back and collide with his knee.

“Ow!” bellows out of him amid a deep and hearty laugh. “Damn…”

“Sorry,” she snickers, reaching down to rub at the joint. “Sorry, baby,” she breathes out as her palm cups his knee, fingertips lightly grazing the skin surrounding it.

“Oh, so now I’m _baby_?” he asks with a lilt.

She props her chin on his chest again, angles herself to be able to look into those sparkling eyes. “You don’t like it… baby?” she inquires as her hand drops off to the side and rakes high along his inner thigh.

“Nah,” he intones, jerking a bit beneath her and letting out an almost uncomfortable sounding grunt as she brushes against him, fingers winding around his now hardening length. “I… I like it.”

She strokes him slowly, gently, her touch both delicate and pressing. “I like _this_ too,” she murmurs softly as a lingering, open-mouthed kiss gets pressed to the very center of his neck.

“Yeah?” he bites out, the bob of his Adam’s apple causing her lips to curl into a crooked smile.

“Mm hmm,” hums out into his skin, pulsing to his core. She shifts a bit and crawls atop him, presses herself to his strong chest, feels his heart beat – wildly now, the smooth steadiness gone – into her own ribcage. “And I like having you here in the morning. Here in my bed.”

He runs a hand through her hair, at first just pushing away the dark waves so he can take in her face. But once he locks onto those dark green eyes, hooded with desire… lust blown, his fingers tangle in and tug, sharply pulling her up to meet his lips. With his metal hand, he cups her ass, the touch there gentler, more timid than he tenders with his right, more tame than the entire rest of his body can muster. “Like waking up to this?” he asks once their lips part, each word punctuated by a short stutter and gasp.

She smiles, wide and cunning and _dangerous_ , and for a moment he thinks that he can die a happy man, could let go right now with this woman’s fingers curled about him, her weight atop him, her flushed face beaming down at him.

“Uh huh,” she breathes out, readying herself beneath the sheets, sidling her hips closer to his, pulling up so as to effortlessly slide back down and guide him into her. Into place. Into the only place he ever wants to be. “Don’t ever wanna wake up any different.”

“Jesus, doll,” he moans, jerking up to recapture her lips, tracing the warmth of her with his tongue, melting into her touch as she reaches up and weaves her fingers into his hair, scrapes lightly – then _harshly_ – at his scalp as her hips move in slow, subtle circles. “ _Fuck_.”

She pulls back, just a bit, just enough to be able to look down and see his red, raw lips, slitted eyes filled with… want. Need. She stares down at him for a long moment, utterly certain that the same unbearable _need_ is painted across her own face as well. A low grunt pulls from his chest as he thrusts into her, hits a spot that makes her gasp, makes her want to weep. Makes her want to utter the words she’d long ago promised herself to never tell another living soul.

_I want you. I need you. I love you._

But the words still in her throat, refusing to come out. And she’s grateful for it. In that moment, she’s so damn grateful.

“Baby,” he mutters blankly, giving her hip a squeeze. A small hit of concerned energy flows into her and she glances down to find a look emanating from his eyes that matches. His brows tug in a curious, _worried_ furrow, the image of him a bit blurry around the edges. And she realizes all at once that she’s _crying_. He lifts his hand to wipe away a tear, frown tugging at his swollen lips. “Sweetheart,” he metes out, only barely slowing his pace. “What?”

She blinks out a few more tears and pulls his face into a hazy focus before craning her head towards his hand – towards that tender, _loving_ touch – and pressing a long, sloppy kiss to his burning palm. _I love you_ , she thinks, the only reasonable answer to his question. _God, I love you._

That is the _what_. It’s the only _what_ there could possibly ever be. She’s as sure of that as she is of anything.

But still, those words remain buried deep inside, that admission she swore never again to give barricading itself inside her chest, coiling itself around her rapidly beating heart. Instead, a cover, equal parts authentic and utterly deceitful. “Pancakes,” she breathes out in a sharp gasp as her hands move to his shoulders, slide to his chest, fingernails digging halfmoon bruises into his flesh. “I want pancakes.”

He stills beneath her for a fleeting moment, his frown swiftly lifting into a smile so wide that it sets the corners of his dazzling eyes to crinkle. A thick laugh chokes out of him and her palms slide to the center of his chest to _pull_ the delightful tremor in. He thrusts again, metal hand rising to cover her own small hands as they rest just above his heart.

“Yeah, doll,” he bites out, expression slipping into a coy grin as he feels her tighten – slick and sweet and vice-like – around him. “I’ll make you all the pancakes you want.”


	15. Help

_New York, after:_

Slowly, things begin to improve.

After those first few tumultuous weeks, everyone starts to fall into a sort of rhythm. There’s a new tempo to life now. To _time._ It’s made up of an oddly staccato blend of sleep-heavy movements – drifting off in front of the TV with a slice of frozen pizza still in hand, waking at four AM to the screeches of a _starving_ baby and shuffling blindly to the bassinet in a now well-worn path – and bright and cheery pursuits, like watching Ava’s eyes blow wide as she stares intently at Steve while he relays long-winded stories about his childhood. Or laughing riotously – everyone, even the still-sullen new mother – as Tony’s first and only visit leaves him _covered_ in both spit-up and poop.

Slowly, it seems, _Tessa_ begins to improve.

That paralyzing sadness, unabating grief, that had sat so heavily upon her shoulders, weighting her every movement, shortening her every breath, is _finally_ starting to let up. It isn’t much, perhaps. But as the new year dawns around them and little Ava celebrates her first full month of life, they all begin to catch glimpses of the Tessa they know so well, little shimmers of their friend shining through the thick, dark cloud encasing her.

Steve never really doubted that it would happen eventually, that she’d find her way to the other side of all the pain and loss, grief and fear. That she’d find her way back to them. And to her daughter. She’d fought her way through so much in life already. He _knew_ she’d fight her way back from this as well.

But he’d be lying if he were to say that he hadn’t been worried. Or that he isn’t worried still.

Watching her cry like that, like she did in the days following Ava’s birth – a near constant onslaught of choking sobs – sent a stab of white hot fear through to his core. It reminded him of how she was – not all that long ago – just after the X-Men fled the school and disappeared into the fog without a word of where they might be heading. Just after the world had decided to turn on mutantkind, demonize and persecute her family, her people… _her_.

He remembers how quiet her voice became then, on the few occasions she actually spoke. How glassy and far off her gaze always seemed to be. How piercing and agonizing her cries became at night when she thought no one could hear through their walls.

She wouldn’t admit to being depressed back then, held a fitful disdain for the word. But there was no doubt in anyone’s mind what was really going on, no matter how she denied it. And _this_ – the tears and distant stares, the solemn silence and fitful sleep, the tightly caught breaths and barely swallowed sobs – it all seemed so much the same.

It cracked his heart in two… seeing her so broken. So lost. And it made him think of Bucky. Of how awful it must’ve been for him when she went through this _sadness_ just that short time ago. Of how strong his best friend was to shoulder that pain, and shoulder her burden. Of how deep his love had to have been to not only persevere through that time, but to guide Tessa through it as well. To hold her hand through all of the misery, and ultimately usher her through to the other side.

No, Steve never doubted that Tessa would somehow make it through. She’s too damn stubborn not to. But he sure as hell questioned if there was anyone alive who could help her do it like Bucky had.

_Help_. That was all he’d been trying to do. Help her keep perspective and not get too lost in work during those last few months of her pregnancy. Help prepare the nursery and make sure she had everything she needed for the new addition. Help with laundry and cooking and cleaning and all of the things that fell by the wayside once Ava was born. Help feed the baby, change the baby, rock the baby… _love_ the baby when she was too tired or lost to do so herself.

He just wants to _help._

“I’m not saying you _have_ to go, Tess,” he calls out gently, leaning towards the closed bathroom door. Ava stirs just a bit in his arms, roused by the sound of his voice. He lowers it a bit before saying, still speaking to a door in lieu of an actual person, “I just think it’d be good for you.” He continues to sway and rock, holding the baby tight to his chest and dropping a lingering kiss to her warm little head as he trembles a bit, the jitters he’d been feeling all day at the prospect of bringing _this_ up hitting him full force, even with the soothing bundle in his arms.

He glances up and stares at the dark wood of the door, pleads silently with her as she stands on the other side to say something. To agree. To at least say she’ll think about it. But he’s met with only silence.

A soft sigh escapes him. “It’s been good for me anyway,” he mutters then, almost to himself, his breath tickling Ava’s hair.

The door swings open, a giant swell of steam billowing out into the bedroom and driving Steve back several feet. “Why are you going to a new mothers’ support group?” Tessa asks with a teasing cadence as she emerges from the cloud.

She looks tired, sure, they all look tired nowadays. But her cheeks are rosy and glowing, the fine worry line between her brows very nearly flattened out. She looks more comfortable and relaxed – there in the doorway to the ensuite, cloaked in a pale, fluffy robe with her hair wrapped in a dark blue towel – than he’s seen her in… well, quite a while. And he finds himself releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders shifting down and unwinding, if only a bit.

The corners of his mouth tick up into a soft smile. “Very funny,” falls delicately from his lips as his hips continue their steady, even rhythm, a subtle tranquility gradually replacing the nervous energy he’d been feeling. “The survivors’ group I’ve been going to there has been good for me,” he corrects casually. “I think.”

Her nose wrinkles into a disgusted expression. “ _Survivors_ ,” she spits out. “Gross. Makes it sound like we _did_ something… crawled out of the wreckage of a downed plane… fought off a hungry pack of wolves…”

“Call it what you want, Tess. Point is, it’s helped.”

She peels off the towel around her head and begins rubbing it almost maniacally at her scalp as she bends over and lets her long mop of hair drip onto the bathroom tile. “Can I call it the Leftovers Club?” She doesn’t have to look up to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “The Federation of the Forsaken?”

“Hilarious, as always,” he muses, his tone a bit scolding but his bright, smiling eyes showing nothing but joy as he revels in her joking.

“The Troupe of Remnants.”

He shakes his head, catching her eye as she flings herself upright and gives him a rather arrogant look. A smug expression to match tugs at his features, single brow rising high as he says to her, “Survival is something that should be celebrated. Or at least… acknowledged. You know, a wise man once said, _Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception._ ”

Her jaw drops, mouth hanging agape for a long moment as she watches his smug smirk grow. “Did you… did you just quote Carl Sagan at me?”

He nods. “I did. See all the things this _survivors’_ group has taught me?”

She lets out a long, harsh groan, her head falling dramatically back as it languidly seeps out of her. “I don’t wanna,” comes out in a childlike whine as she straightens upright, her shoulders seeming more bent than just a moment ago, once again loaded down with the weight of the world.

“It’s just that…” he starts, the smile slowly slipping from his face as he watches her squeeze some remaining water from her hair and drop the wet towel into a corner of the bathroom. “It’s easy to forget… when we shut ourselves off from the rest of the world… it’s easy to forget that we’re not alone. We’re not the only ones going through this. We’re not the only ones who’ve lost, and who have to find a way to go on.”

She spins on him, the placid set to her features now gone entirely, replaced by that same stiff frown he’d gotten so used to seeing of late. Her skin no longer glows – warm and clean and fresh from the nearly thirty-minute-long shower – instead it merely hangs loose around her thin face, setting off the dark circles beneath her eyes once again. “I haven’t forgotten, Steve. I’ll never forget that.”

He lets out a long sigh, his bright blue eyes suddenly imbued with a sheen and a sense of _imploring_. “There are a lot of women out there who are going through _this_ , Tessa. That’s all I’m saying. I’ve seen the group at the community center when I go on Wednesdays. There are at least ten or fifteen women there… new moms who are struggling with… that. _And_ with everything else. And I just… I just think that you should talk to them. That’s all. I just think it could be good. Helpful. To get some perspective or advice or…”

His gaze ticks down to the baby cradled at his chest. Their little Ava Grace. Nat’s kiska. His angel. Tessa doesn’t have a pet name for her yet. She doesn’t call her anything at all.

He looks back up, the blue of eyes now dark and stormy. “I think it could be good for _both_ of you.”

She stares at him long and hard for a painfully silent moment before letting her gaze slowly drift down to the sleeping baby in his arms. “How do you do that?” she asks, her voice sounding a bit strained, her eyes narrowing quizzically at the sight before her.

He raises a questioning brow and watches as she turns and flips off the bathroom light before lumbering exhaustedly towards the bed. “What?”

She awkwardly climbs beneath the covers, feeling the weight of the day return. She had forced herself to actually _do_ things today, to shake off the near constant fog by just moving about the apartment, doing a load of laundry, sitting on the couch with Natasha rather than clinging to her in bed. Today, for the first time in weeks, she ate in the kitchen, got some fresh – albeit _cold_ – air out on the balcony, and started to feel a hint of normalcy creep back into her soul. But even just those tiniest of steps towards recovery had been utterly draining and had left her feeling even more weary than she had been before.

She lets out a long yawn and gives a weak nod towards a peacefully slumbering Ava, lightly snoring on his chest.

“Oh,” he mutters, crooked smile pulling as he glances down at her again. “Guess I just have a way with the ladies.”

Tessa snorts – and much to his delight, _smiles_ – before rolling her eyes and smarting, “You wish.”

A breath of a laugh slips from his lips, blows apart the wispy curls atop the baby’s head. “It’s my heart,” he says after a moment. She gives him a confused grimace, brows tugging tightly together. “My heartrate’s… steady,” he goes on to say, haughty grin pulling. “Or so I’ve been told.”

Another eyeroll. “Yeah, slow and steady,” she mutters with a huff.

He shrugs. “Anyway, I think she likes it. Maybe finds it… soothing. Seems to calm when she’s on my chest. I think that’s it.”

Tessa nods thoughtfully, watching as he turns and gently deposits the baby into the bassinette, his fingers lingering over her own tiny chest as he takes in the ghostly thrumming of her little heart.

“No magic to it,” he declares with a sigh as he turns back to face her.

Another nod. Another tug of her brows. She bites at the corner of her lip for a moment, debating whether or not to ask, “Can I try?”

He cocks his head curiously, not quite understanding the question.

“Can…” Her expression shifts into something wary, even bashful. “Can I… see if it calms _me_?”

His brows shoot high. “You want to lay on my chest?”

“Is that weird?” she asks, the nervousness suddenly gone from her voice and replaced by an almost mischievous tenor. “Afraid you won’t be able to keep your heartrate slow and steady around me?”

He blows out a quick chuckle, repeating her own words back to her – “You wish.” – before striding over and crawling into bed beside her, kicking off his shoes as he pulls his legs up on top of the comforter. “C’mere,” he says, tone light as he raises an arm for her duck beneath.

Her wet hair quickly begins to soak through his shirt, and he drops his hand down to pull the mass of damp waves back, letting his fingers tenderly tap along the base of her skull as he holds the knot of hair. “He was like this too,” she mutters softly, voice so low he barely hears. “Slow. And steady.”

“An effect of the serum?” he asks, not really caring about the answer, just feeling the need to say something – anything – rather than sit in speculative silence while she talks about her dead husband. His vanished best friend.

Her shoulders pull into a small shrug, one he feels rubbing into his ribcage. “You remember when he almost died?” she asks then, cocking her head up a bit to catch his face out of the corner of her eye.

“Which time?” he asks with a grin.

She settles back into him. “When he got shot. And they had to open up his chest.”

He nods, but says nothing. Of course he remembers.

_He’s gonna be fine_ , he’d told her then. _I promise._ And when her resolve wavered, when her spiraling thoughts made it nearly impossible to believe that was true, he’d spoken the words that haunt him to this day. _He would never leave you._

Her hand rises up to rest beneath her cheek, fingers pressed lightly to his sternum. “I used to… touch the scar there. I swear I could feel it long after it was healed and gone. But… I’d touch it and… and… I’d feel his heart beat into my palm… and…” Her index finger trails slowly down his chest, searching for something that isn’t there. Something that simply no longer exists. Then she balls her hand into a tight fist and tugs it away, clenching it by her side as she leans further into him, presses her ear firmly to his chest. “It is… nice,” she states, voice soft and low.

He can hear her heart beating beside him, the pace slowing and stabilizing. Her breaths even out as well, all in the space of just a few quiet moments. He shifts a bit, bringing his body a little lower down the bed so her neck doesn’t stay cocked at such a tight angle, and he lets out a long, deep sigh. He almost laughs at just how quickly she’s managed to fall asleep. Almost.

His eyes bounce over to the baby sleeping just a few paces away, his ears perking to catch the soft beating of her heart as well. From the other room, the barely there sounds of a TV, volume turned all the way down, remind him that Natasha is waiting for him to return. If she hasn’t fallen asleep on the couch already.

There’s a heaviness in his bones, one that’s been there for so long, one that he tries to ignore, to deny. But right now, that normally burdensome weight feels almost welcoming, forcing his body to relax into the soft comforter, curl nearer the form at his side. Right now, the weight of everything feels almost soothing. It feels… natural.

000

Tessa spends the entire ride over to the community center sulking in sullen silence as Steve prattles on beside her about how great it can be to meet new people. And to talk about tough times and shared challenges. And to find support and lend support and help one another… _blah, blah, blah_.

_Talking_ is the last thing she wants to do. Sharing and caring and all that other bullshit? It’s not for her. “I’m just not… built for this,” she tries to explain to him once they finally arrive. Her hand stills on the door, her body refusing to budge from the warm – and _safe_ – car. “It just feels… icky to me.”

He levels her with a serious stare, puts on the good old Captain voice, and says simply, “You’re full of shit,” before offering a kind smile and an encouraging nod toward the door. “Now go be nice for an hour and we can stop for ice cream on the way home.”

She puts on a pathetic pout and dramatically rolls out of the car, slamming the door before shuffling across the snow-covered sidewalk at an achingly slow pace and _finally_ lumbering into the brightly lit community center. Steve can’t help but laugh, shaking his head fondly as he watches her disappear into the building before he drives off, breathing out a relieved sigh that could just as easily be heard as a prayer.

Through the too-bright halls, with the harsh fluorescent lighting beating down on her, Tessa continues to sulk. She staggers in an exhausted, contemptuous daze all the way to the last room on the left, internally cursing Steve’s damn puppy dog eyes as she goes. Hadn’t Bucky warned her time and again that the innocent, pleading look of his would always get him what he wanted, even when they were kids? Hadn’t she known him long enough to know that herself? And yet she fell for it still, allowing those stupid eyes – along with his stupid worried energy that she didn’t have the strength to block out – to convince her to come here.

Her body gives an involuntary shudder as she thinks about taking part in this therapeutic gathering, sitting in a tight circle with a bunch of strange – likely _emotional_ – women. The idea of so much vulnerability in one room almost makes her sick to her stomach.

But the moment she actually enters, an overwhelming hit of _welcome_ , a relaxed sort of _acceptance_ , slams up against her tightly held walls. Gracious smiles abound as they introduce themselves… and take her soft silence and nervous grimace easily in stride. After all, it’s nothing they haven’t seen before. Nothing they haven’t _done_ before.

After a few lingering moments, they all sit down in a large circle, the hard plastic chairs cold and uninviting, but these women still somehow effusing a hospitable vibe that – after the first five minutes or so – Tessa wishes would just turn off. She doesn’t want to be welcomed here. She doesn’t want these women – nor herself – to believe that she belongs here.

“You have a girl or a boy?” one of the them asks abruptly, an almost bubbly seeming young woman with golden hair and plush, pink cheeks looking her way, pulling her from her thoughts.

Tessa sputters for a beat, not really expecting to have questions directed her way so soon after taking a seat. “Uh,” she breathes out, sleep-addled mind grinding to wake up. “Girl.”

The woman smiles. “I have a boy. Noah. He’s almost five months. How old is your little girl?”

Again she takes a moment longer than needed to answer, the words taking a bit to form in her head. “Four weeks. Four and a half,” she says, her brows twisting as if lost in thought, questioning whether her assertion is correct. “Or… five.”

“Jesus,” another woman mutters, her eyes rolling heavily back into her head. She looks at Tessa with a raised and appraising brow, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Your first, huh?” she asks, going on without waiting for a response. “Yeah, my body bounced back pretty quick after the first too. The others… not so much.”

Tessa frowns. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The chipper blonde turns her way once again. “Mara has four kids,” she croons, bright smile quickly dropping as she realizes her mistake. “Had,” she corrects sullenly, ducking her head in shame. “Sorry.”

The middle-aged woman across the room – Mara, apparently – shifts in her seat, her face utterly expressionless as she states, “Lost two in the Snap,” and shrugs before going on to say, “and my husband.”

Tessa nods, her own face an emotionless mask, and says simply, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Again, the woman cocks a brow. “Well. It’s not exactly a _new_ story, right? I’m guessing you lost your husband too?” she asks, her eyes overtly ticking down to the rings adorning Tessa’s finger.

She clears her throat, gaze falling to the bands, thumb rising to absently pivot the emerald back and forth. “Yeah.”

The blonde chimes in again, clearly ready to slice through any tension. “You could’ve brought her, you know.” She tosses a quick glance around the small circle, smiling softly at the handful of women cradling their babies close. “They’re always welcome here. I leave Noah with my mom just because… well…” she shrugs, a bit of a blush rising to her cheeks.

Helen, the _group facilitator_ , as she introduced herself earlier, leans over and pats the blonde on the knee. “For some of us,” she begins with a kind grin, “this is our big night out away from the kids. Naomi’s no different.”

_Naomi_ , Tessa repeats to herself. _Helen. Mara. Naomi…_ though she doubts that any of the names she learns tonight will actually stick.

“So,” Mara begins again. “Where’s your daughter tonight?”

“She’s… with a friend,” she replies shortly, frown tugging further down her face.

“Must be nice… to have friends. All I have is a 14 year old who was bitter and moody and pissed about having another sibling _before_ all this happened.” She quirks a crooked smile – more to herself – as her gaze goes glassy and distant for just a beat of a moment. “She’s a good kid, though.”

Helen settles a curious yet kind stare on Tessa and says simply, as though it’s the most ordinary and obvious request in the world, “Why don’t you tell us about your daughter.”

Her brows shoot up. “My daughter?” she asks, the word – _daughter_ – still tasting foreign on her tongue. Helen nods. “Well… um… she’s a baby. I mean…” She lets out a longwinded, deep-burning sigh, a sudden, perhaps unwarranted, annoyance beginning to bloom in her gut. She runs a hand through her hair, leans back in the chair and blinks her eyes shut for a long, introspective moment.

_She looks just like her father, and it breaks my heart. When I hear her cry, I can’t help but think that she’s crying for him. Or crying to tell him what a terrible mother I am. She knows… I_ know _she knows… that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. That I have no clue how to be a mother._

_Sometimes when she looks at me I feel like I see disappointment in her pale blue eyes. Then again, sometimes I see recognition, and_ love _._

_She looks around the room, follows sounds… I can already tell she’s smart as hell._

_I love her more than anything. I’m desperate to get away. I look at her and see all the ways I’ve already let her down… and all the ways I know I’m going to fail her as she gets older._

_She’s the most amazing and important thing I’ve ever done. And some days I regret ever having made her at all._

“It’s not a trick question,” one of the other women mumbles with a laugh, pulling Tessa from her rambling reverie. Her head snaps up and towards her, her eyes piercing through the woman’s teasing glean. She smiles. “Does she have a name?”

“Ava.”

“And you said she’s about five weeks?” Tessa nods. “I know she’s not _doing_ much, but… how’s she eating?” She cocks an almost devious brow. “Sleeping?”

Helen chimes in with a note that, “It’s sometimes easier for us to talk about our kids, our babies, instead of ourselves. The truth is, how _they_ are is often a reflection of how _we’re_ doing. So we can just start there.”

“Okay,” she drawls out finally. “Well… she doesn’t sleep much. Yeah,” she breathes out, her head shaking slowly, distractedly, to-and-fro. “Yeah… And I guess that means I don’t really either.” Her brow crinkles in thought, head cocking to the side as her eyes tick off to stare at nothing and her mind begins to once again whir. “It’s weird though… because I never really needed sleep before. Not much, I mean. Not really. And I knew I’d be sleep deprived. They tell you that. And I _know_ that. I feel like… on the surface, I knew what to expect.”

She looks up for a moment, capturing the patient gaze of Helen as she sits quietly – expectantly – across from her.

“I’m a doctor,” she explains with a shrug. “So I _knew_ at least some things. But… I don’t know… I don’t get it. I mean, I used to be able to run an entire lab, head up the staff, lead time-sensitive trials, gather and interpret the data on my own while beginning the next iteration of the experiments… _and_ be at the beckon call for a bunch of overgrown children who were _constantly_ in need of stitches and X-rays and bandages and braces. And I could do it all on _maybe_ a few hours of sleep. I mean, sure, I’d pass out off and on at my desk. And there were definitely hours, maybe days, that I kind of _forgot_ ever happened. But still… I’ve never felt this _tired_.”

Mara lets out a snort of a laugh. “Welcome to motherhood,” she mutters sarcastically.

“Hm,” Tessa breathes out, contemplative expression still tugging at her features, further wrinkling her brow. “Motherhood. I don’t think I even know what that means. I never had a mother. So I don’t think I know…” Her mouth slams shut, teeth clacking audibly as her lips press tightly together. “Sorry,” she ekes out after a lengthy, too-tense moment. “Sorry,” as she shakes her head helplessly, face burning bright with embarrassment. “Overshare…”

“No such thing here,” Helen tells her gently. “Sharing is kind of the point of all this.” She smiles at her – graciously, encouragingly – and for a moment Tessa sees Sam reflected in her gaze. She sees his bright, beautiful face offering her that exact same expression as he sits across from her in her living room, eagerly helping her heal a fractured psyche.

Vaguely, she realizes that this is the same community center where he led one of his support groups – the VA being a bit of a trek for many in the area – and she can’t help but wonder if it’s some kind of prerequisite dictated by whatever organization heads these things up that you have to perfect the soothing, patient smile. She stares – perhaps a moment too long, perhaps a touch too intently – realizing just as Helen bristles a bit under her scrutiny that, no, this woman’s got nothing on Sam.

Helen clears her throat as she blinks her gaze away. “As for being tired… you have to remember, your body is still recovering right now. You said you’re a doctor, so you must understand that the postpartum period can be long and hard.”

Another annoyed snort sounds from the middle-aged woman across from her. “Doctors don’t know shit about postpartum. That’s why we have to have groups like this. Especially for those of you who don’t have moms of your own to go to. Someone’s gotta tell all of you newbies how it _really_ is.”

Tessa quirks a brow. “Actually, that’s true. I spent months in an OB rotation and learned precisely _nothing_ about what a woman goes through once she leaves the hospital.”

Mara leans forward and offers an almost conspiratorial grin, one that feels less like a smirk and more like an invitation into some sort of elusive society. “Rude fucking awakening, isn’t it?”

Tessa feels her face split into a cautious smile, feels the gentle rumble of a laugh pull from her chest, and feels the bob of her head as she nods easily before _finally_ relaxing back into the terribly uncomfortable plastic chair beneath her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this one... I was struggling a bit with it because - honestly - I kept wanting to move ahead and just work on the more _exciting_ chapters that are to come. But I think this is important exposition for the story... and hopefully it was still an enjoyable read for you all!


	16. In the Quiet

_Wakanda, before:_

The bed is cold. That’s what wakes him. For the first time in weeks, when his eyes pop open in the unkempt darkness, he’s met with _cold_. And a thick, unsettling silence.

It hadn’t been every night, of course, that Bucky was roused by the sounds of disquieting mumbling. Or outright screams. It hadn’t been every night that dreams – vivid and tense and terse – had rocked the woman by his side. But it had been enough nights over the past weeks – since moving into the little house gifted them by T’Challa… since beginning this new, alien life – that he’d almost come to expect it. So waking to the extreme opposite – to utter _silence_ – causes an eerie sort of dread to rocket through him, trepidation slinking thickly beneath his skin and causing a rash of chilling gooseflesh to encase him head to toe.

He bolts upright, ripping the heavy quilt away in a single, deft move as his legs sweep off the mattress, heavy feet colliding with the floor. He _knows_ that there’s no need for this kind of fear. He _knows_ that they’re safe here… no Lobe or Ross or mutant-hunting enemies. No killer robots or alien invaders or world-ending threats. No Hydra.

He _knows_ there’s no need to panic simply because Tessa isn’t here, right by his side where he’s been so desperate to keep her for weeks now. Months, if he were to be honest. Nearly half a year… that’s how long it’s been since he rushed into the clinic at the compound and found his missing – tortured, broken, _sick_ – wife finally returned to him.

He _knows_ that what he’s feeling right now is an overreaction, this… terror creeping through his bones, settling into his lungs like muddy river water. But it drowns him just the same.

He finds her out on the porch, a massive thing built with thick slats of wood so sturdy that they barely creak, even under his weight. Even when the panic coursing through him has him forgetting how to step lightly, how to creep and lurk and _calmly_ find someone in the dark depths of the night. The moment he catches a glimpse of her back, slightly bent, shoulders slumped, her wild hair pulled to one side, getting tickled by the cool Wakandan breeze, he pulls to a stop and releases a heavy, halting breath. It comes out closer to a gasp, even he can hear that, even with the adrenaline still forcing a buzz through his ears. And that short, stuttered gulp of air resounds just enough to cause her to start and turn.

She says nothing, mouth agape for a long moment as she swallows her own – fleeting – panic and steadies her gaze on his frazzled form. Slowly – as she opens herself up to discover the tenor of his energy – her lips pull shut and settle into a frown.

Fear. Dread. Apprehension. It all sloughs off of him as he looms in the doorway, a tight metal fist gleaming in the moonlight. It’s an easily recognizable sight. An all too common one of late. And it causes her glower to droop even further.

“I…” he starts, voice breaking a bit around just that single syllable. He clears his throat and flexes his fists – both hands, flesh and metal, pulling into the dangerous posture without him even realizing – then shakes them out. One tiny shuffle forward – hesitant, uncertain – and Tessa’s face cracks into a small, crooked grin, that minor gesture like a breath of life to his washed-up soul, still sick and sputtering and drowning in too familiar dread.

She ticks her head to the side, and it’s all the invitation he needs, his shaky legs propelling him forward the next few steps and allowing him to lower himself down beside her on the stairs.

“You…?” she prompts playfully, nudging him with her shoulder. He can see – even with nothing more than the light of the stars and the sliver of moon hanging low in the sky – that the bidding smile on her face stops at her lips, those dark green eyes looking only sullen and tired.

“I didn’t know where you were,” he says finally. “You weren’t in bed.”

She nods, her eyes ticking away, turning to stare out past the pitch dark tree line. “That’s true.”

His brow furrows, mind only just now beginning to settle out of the anxious spin. “What’s wrong?”

She shrugs – “Nothing. It’s just… too quiet.” – and turns back to face him, a depleting breath seeping out of her chest in a long, coarse drone. “Guess I thought, maybe it’d be _louder_ out here. Insects. Animals. I don’t know.”

“You were hoping for traffic noise,” he teases, smirk pulling at his lips as he gently bumps her with his elbow.

“Maybe,” she laughs.

“You don’t like the quiet?”

Another shrug. “I don’t think I really know. I mean, I grew up in a mansion with a bunch of other kids, some of whom had very… disruptive powers,” she quips with a joking brow cocked. “And then… I went to school in the city. Worked and lived in the city. I mean… New York, but also… other cities.” A long, languid sigh slips from her lips, her posture giving a bit, shoulders slinking further down as the breath leaves her body. “I think the compound was probably the quietest place I’ve ever been. And even that was filled with trainees. Lab techs and support staff. Tony.”

“Don’t tell me you’re missing Stark,” he says with a snicker, the jibe earning him a rather dubious look in response. He clears his throat and bites back the teasing sneer, scoots a little closer to her as he feels a chill set her to tremble. “Guess I never noticed that the quiet bothered you before.”

Her eyes tick away again, back out to the vast dark grounds, all of the lush greenery and uncleared fields that now – somehow, inexplicably – belongs to her and Bucky. “I didn’t say it bothered me,” she mutters faintly, words nearly carried away by a sudden, chilling wind. She wraps her bare arms tighter around herself and leans into her husband’s side, drops her head to his shoulder as he coils his warm, flesh arm around her torso and tugs her to him. “It’s just… different. All of this is different.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, inclining his head so that his heavy stubbled cheek lays atop her crown.

“I think…” she starts, words trailing slowly off to nothing as her eyes continue to stare out into the vast dark. He gives her a slight jostle, his fingers tapping at her hip in subtle encouragement, a delicate beckoning to come back. To go on. “I told you about… after the thing with Lobe. Well,” she hums, both brows shooting upward. “The _first_ thing, anyway. When I drowned. And… died. And the wall that the Professor built started to come down…” She shifts in his embrace, curling a bit more into him, her head slipping down to his chest. “I told you that I… heard voices.”

His breath hitches, shoulders tighten. “Yeah,” falling from in his lips in an anxious sort of growl.

The sudden shift in him causes her to pull back a bit and she cocks her head up to capture his terribly hesitant gaze. “I’m not saying that’s happening again. Not now. Not really.”

“Not really?” he asks, raising a questioning brow, his fingers tightening round her hip.

“No. I just mean… when it happened then… it was really just my own mind, my own _past_ bubbling up and… I don’t know, _screaming_ at me to listen. To remember.” She shrugs, gaze dropping down and focusing on the dark wooden step beneath their legs. “And when it was quiet… that’s when the voices were always loudest. That’s when they’d… take over and…”

He nods slowly, understanding all too well what she’s struggling to say. He’s buried more than his fair share of memories, dug graves six feet deep inside his own gray matter to shove them down into. Heaped every distraction he could find – gentle touches and sweet smells, righteous kills and heroic acts, simple disruptions and heady noise – atop those loose mounds to make sure that the ghosts wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – climb back out.

But when the distractions cease, when the world grows quiet and dark and the space within becomes light and calm, the graves go unattended. And the past – like the dead that just won’t die – begins to claw it’s way out.

“Maybe,” he starts, tone low and unsure. “Maybe you should think about what Shuri said. Take her up on her suggestion.”

“Hm,” she hums out, lips pinching tightly together. _I can only repair the physical_. That’s what the young scientist had said, told Tessa with a stern expression when she complained that she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. _I can only repair the physical. But there are plenty of others who can help you sift through that crazy, beautiful mind of yours. If you’ll let them_.

“I didn’t want to go,” he goes on, soft voice breaking through the silent night as a newfound self-assuredness quickly encompasses him. “When Steve first found me and brought me back… last thing I wanted to do was _talk_ to anyone. About anything. But he said I couldn’t stay at the tower if I didn’t get some kind of therapy, if I didn’t get some kind of… help.”

She elbows him playfully in the ribs. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re gonna kick me out if I don’t go get my head shrunk?” she asks with a bit of a lilt.

He rolls his eyes, but snickers just the same. “No one else would take you in,” he mutters, tugging her close again and tucking her head beneath his chin with a lingering kiss to her hair.

“No one else wanted to take you in back then either. Just Steve,” she says with a sigh. “It’s a miracle his apartment was never overrun with strays.”

He smirks and blows out a thick scoff. “Fella never met a problem he didn’t think he could fix. Even a damn world war.”

“What’s an elderly, brainwashed assassin compared to that?”

“Ha, ha,” he deadpans, his arm tightening around her, reaction pulling a small chortle from her chest.

A long, silent moment settles in between them, pocked only by the soft sounds of their mingling breaths. “I just don’t want to,” she says then, spilling the thought out in a petulant sort of whine. “I don’t want to… feel things. I’d rather just keep it all shoved way, way down.”

He snorts out a laugh, a bit of a breathy chuckle following on its heels that she can _feel_ vibrate from his chest into her cheek. “And how’s that been working out for you, doll?”

She pulls away from his embrace, sitting upright and turning an almost despondent frown – every tiny, sad detail of the expression clear as day to his enhanced eyes – on him. “It’d be easier to do if you’d let me _work_ ,” she complains sullenly.

“Right. Yeah,” he utters with a disbelieving glare. “If only you could work 24/7, then you’d never have to actually _deal_ with anything.”

“Exactly,” she replies with a rather smug air.

He laughs, light and almost teasing. “Baby,” he breathes out, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “You know how fucked up you gotta be for someone like _me_ to be telling you that’s bullshit?”

“That’s not nice,” she mutters with a pout. “To either of us.”

He drops his feet down another step, stretching his legs a bit before wrapping both arms around her middle and tugging her into his lap. She resists for barely a breath of moment, stiffening in his hold until he drops his head to the crest of her shoulder and snuggles into the crook of her neck. Then she easily melts into him, her own arms slipping beneath his, cold hands diving under the hem of his shirt and splaying wide over his blissfully warm back.

“We’ve talked about this for years,” he murmurs into her, tone light despite the insistent, almost desperate energy sloughing off of him. “When you were struggling after drowning… when all the nightmares started. When the Professor started to… put you back together, and you had to make peace with a whole new… you.” His head pops up, soft gaze reflecting in the moonlight as he stares into her eyes. “When your family left and you were _obviously_ so damn depressed.”

She shakes her head. “And I came back from that… from all of it. Right? I managed fine on my own.”

He raises a single, incredulous brow. “If you actually think you were on your own for any of that, you’re out of your damn mind.”

“Okay then,” she mutters with a shrug. “I wasn’t alone. I had you. And I have you now. So…”

He shakes his head, slow and forlorn. “I can’t fix you, baby. God, I wish I could. I would do _anything_ for you. But I can’t… I just don’t think I can help with this.”

She stares down at him for a long moment, the low light allowing just a glimpse of that sad, apprehensive mask painted upon his face. Slowly, she opens herself up wholly to him, to feel _all_ of his energy course through her. It’s awful. Fear and dread. Guilt and grief. Sorrow and helplessness. And then, in that moment, it all makes sense.

Of course he can’t help her with this… this _thing_ that’s been simmering just beneath the surface for so long. A trauma – so similar to his own at the hands of Hydra – sparked by a captivity filled with pain and torture… ending with her own monstrous gnashing. A sorrowful _hurt_ set to boil and rise by the startling – utterly juxtaposed – quietude of this idyllic place.

How could he possibly help her to heal from something that still cracks his own heart in two? Something that – there’s not a doubt in her mind – reminds him endlessly of that life he’s worked so hard to forget?

And she knows – she’s known all along – that despite all of the Steve-appointed therapy with that whacky shrink, despite all the years he’s clung to Tessa in an attempt to fill a certain void, despite all the good and great things he’s done to try and make up for all the terrible things that still haunt his dreams, he’s not half as healed as he so often claims to be.

She pulls a hand out from beneath his shirt and lays it at his cheek, pressing her palm into the scratchy beard and letting the pad of her thumb stroke lazily along his lips.

“I’m sorry,” she says, a mere whisper, as she releases a hit of soft, soothing energy into him.

The sudden warmth from her palm – and the serenity billowing in his gut – causes his eyes to blink closed, a long-held breath tumbling out of the lips that her thumb still presses gently into. “Don’t,” he breathes out, a delicate chide.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, this time a bit louder. “I know it hurts you too… I know I’m hurting you.”

His eyes fly open, brows tugging swiftly together. “God, no, baby. You could never hurt me.”

“Lies,” she chants softly amid a small snicker. Then, her face setting into a frown to match his, she admits pointedly, “I put too much on you. I shouldn’t…”

“I can handle it,” he interrupts quickly.

“No,” she intones. “You can’t. And you shouldn’t.”

His head begins a slow swing back and forth and he lets out a long, stilted sigh. “I just want you… to be okay,” he confesses blandly. “Safe and healthy and happy.”

She nods slowly, tender gaze still locked onto his darkened eyes. “I know.”

“I’m just worried about you.”

“I know,” she says again.

He pulls in a shuddery breath and drops his head, ducks back into the safe, warm, inviting crook of her neck. “I just want the fear to go away. And the nightmares to stop. And…” His voice hitches and halts, lips pinching tightly together the moment he realizes that he’s no longer talking about what he wants for _her_ at all.

Her hand sweeps back and tangles in his hair, short nails scratching soothing lines along his scalp. In the quiet of the night, he can hear her heart beating, the rhythm – for once – softer and steadier than his own, calmer in its confident pace than the frantic thrumming pulsating against his own ribs.

“I know,” she whispers softly into his hair, holding him close as she settles deeper into his lap. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we came into this story after Bucky and Tessa had already been in Wakanda a while and had time to settle and recover. But, man, after what they went through, that recovery must've been a hell of a process. So some of these past chapters are going to get into that... because I feel like they _have_ to in order to do them justice. And in order to lay the groundwork for their future.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading!


	17. A New Normal

_New York, after:_

“She’s down,” he breathes out thickly, exhaustion peppering his tone as he collapses onto the couch in a heap beside Tessa. “Finally.”

She lets out a soft laugh and swiftly shuts her laptop, leaning over to place it on the side table. “Uncle Steve to the rescue.”

His head plops back onto the cushion behind him, eyes blinking shut. “Damn right,” he mutters softly. “I’m a real superhero.”

Another chuckle bounds out of her, light and serene and buoyant. It’s a sound that feels almost foreign to his ears, one he hasn’t heard in so damn long, not since those more recent – all too brief – visits he made to see her and Bucky in Wakanda.

Had there been laughter over this past… _year_? And had it really been almost a year since half the world had turned to ash? Yes. Yes there had been moments of laughter and levity. Moments of memories being shared without the bitter tears that so often followed. Moments of hope and calm and _light_. But they had been rare. And fleeting.

He cracks open a single eye, shifting just enough to catch a glimpse of her face, to see her brows eagerly rise in an unasked question. A small rumble of laughter pulls from his chest as he turns to stare up at the ceiling and let out a long groan of a sigh. “What?”

“Are you really going to fall asleep right now?” she asks, an almost chiding quality to her voice. “Right now, when I _finally_ finished all of that paperwork… and Ava is _finally_ asleep in the other room… and we both _finally_ have actual, non-work-related, uninterrupted _adult_ company?”

He snickers softly – “I was thinking about it. Yeah.” – and promptly gets thwacked with a pillow. “Ow!” He chuckles brightly, pulling himself upright and staring her down. “Hey, I just spent all day playing nanny to _your_ kid, and this is the thanks I get?”

An overdone frown rolls across her face. “You said you wanted this job.”

“It’s not a _job_ ,” he challenges, single brow raised high over a pair of bright blue eyes.

She shrugs. “I offered to pay you.”

And it’s true, she had. And he had outright refused.

When Tessa decided she was ready to go back to work – _needed_ to go back to work – Steve had stepped up and volunteered to watch Ava. She was just barely nine weeks old, after all. And the idea of her being tucked away in a corner of some overrun daycare or left to the whims of some _stranger_ in a Mary Poppins’ guise was, frankly, unthinkable.

“Steve,” she had bemoaned the moment he made his offer. “I know you want to help… you _always_ want to help…”

“That’s so wrong?”

She shook her head and let out an impatient huff. “I’m not going to let you give up your life to play nanny to my kid. You’ve already put yourself out enough for us. We’re not your responsibility.”

A thick knot formed in his stomach at hearing those words. _You’ve already put yourself out enough for us_ , as though caring for his little angel those past months had been some sort of burden. _We’re not your responsibility_ , as though being there for his friend – being there for his best friend’s _wife_ and _daughter_ – was a yoke he had no right to bear.

“Honestly, Tess,” he had told her, doing all he could to argue his case, doing the best he could to tamp down the building fear that he was about to be effectively dismissed from their lives, “I’ve got nothing else going on.”

And that was most certainly true. Natasha had moved back to the compound and was spending her time keeping up with the international – and intergalactic – goings on from there. And most of the others were committed to that same effort, working to rebuild the world as best they could. But Steve wasn’t there yet. Being in the compound still _hurt_. Pretending to be part of a team again – part of _the_ team – was just not something he was ready to do. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“I can do it, really. I _want_ to,” he continued to assert, arguing and insisting and – finally – wearing her down.

It wasn’t something Steve had ever anticipated doing… spending his days carrying for a baby. Giving up the seemingly never-ending fight he had so long ago dedicated himself to pursue, and instead settling into the exhausting monotony of domesticity. But there had been a thick, boundless void within him for this past year – for longer than that, if he were to be completely honest – and while he tried to ignore it, to deny it, it still managed to eat away at him every single day.

But somehow, when he’s with Ava, that void within seems smaller. When he hears her tiny giggles spill out during bath time, when she smiles sleepily up at him as he rocks her, when she gives him a suspiciously _Bucky_ smirk as he changes her disgusting diapers, sometimes that void disappears altogether. If only for a moment.

No, this is most definitely _not_ the life that Steve – Captain _freakin’_ America – ever thought he’d fall into. But he can’t deny that somehow it… fits.

He looks back over at her now and sighs. “What do you want to do?” he asks with a small grin. “You want to watch a movie?”

She lets out a rather indignant snort and rolls her eyes. “Oh, you mean, do I want to distract myself for two hours so you can turn out the lights and snore on my couch?”

He pulls back, hand falling to his chest, utterly affronted. “I don’t snore.”

“You absolutely snore,” she deadpans, rising from the sofa and sweeping into the kitchen.

He twists around to watch her go, sees her grab a couple of beers from the fridge. “I do not.”

She returns and hands him a drink before flopping back down beside him. “When was the last time you _heard_ yourself sleep, huh?”

He huffs out a quick laugh, glances down at the bottle in his hand, then at the one in hers. A single, questioning – teasing – brow rises high as he watches her screw off the top and take a quick pull.

Tessa’s eyes roll back even more dramatically than a moment ago as she brings the beer away from her mouth, quickly swiping at her lips with her tongue. “Don’t look at me like that,” she tells him with a warning gleam to her eye. “The freezer is _full_ of breast milk. I can pump and dump.”

He just shrugs, sly smile creeping along his face as he says, “You’re the one who wanted to keep nursing,” only a little bit surprised by how easily he’s able to talk about something that just a handful of months ago would’ve made his entire body burn bright with an uncomfortable blush. He brings his beer up to his lips, still staring ahead at her, momentarily distracted by the slight pout on her face. “At least I don’t talk in my sleep,” he mutters over the bottle, watching – hoping – for an amused crack to her features.

“I _mutter_ ,” she corrects, getting swiftly cut off by a short scoff from across the couch.

“You shout orders,” he interjects with a grumble.

“I do not.”

“Oh, and when was the last time _you_ heard yourself sleep?”

She takes another drink and reaches out for the remote on the table. “I shared a bed with someone for five years.”

“Yeah, I know,” he snickers. “How do you think I know about this?” Her head whips toward him, brow furrowed in confusion. “You know, the first time he heard you talking in your sleep, he thought you were possessed.”

“Ungh,” rolls out of her with a disgusted intonation, her face pinching dramatically. “He did not.”

“Asked me to help him find a priest,” he jokes with a shrug.

She tosses the remote at him, watches as it bounces off his chest and into his lap. “Shut up.”

Steve laughs then – a bright and true and brilliant laugh – as the slightest hint of a blush creeps over her cheeks. “He recorded you once,” he tells her, face split wide with a grin. “It was a good five minutes of babbling that ended with a shout… something like, _run the petri dish again!_ ”

“Run the petri…?” she repeats disbelievingly, folding over with laughter. “What?!”

He waves a dismissive hand through the air. “I don’t know… It was something science-y. Made sense at the time.”

She swallows down her chuckles and pulls herself back upright, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t believe you,” she teases with narrowed eyes. “Prove it.”

“Can’t,” he shrugs. “We listened to it four or five times, had a good laugh. Then he deleted it off his phone and told me not to say anything. Didn’t want you to feel embarrassed.”

She gives a short nod, expression settling into something more thoughtful and solemn. “Must’ve been pretty early on,” she mutters after a moment. “He didn’t usually hesitate to make fun of me.”

“ _Him_ make fun of _you_? Tess, you teased him worse than I did,” he laughs out. “You made fun of his age all the time!”

“Yeah, because he’s old… like someone else I know,” she states, raising a brow and shifting to face him bodily, pulling and folding her legs up on the couch beneath her. Steve merely rolls his eyes at her insinuation. “He was 101 on our wedding day.”

“You called him an excellent housewife,” he jibes, taking a pull from his beer to cover the playful smirk rising to his lips.

She shakes her head. “That was Sam. I just refused to deny it.” Her face falls a bit – whether from recalling the moment years ago or from inadvertently breathing out the name of another fallen loved one, neither of them are sure. “I got in _big_ trouble for that too.”

Steve quiets, his spirited grin stretching just a bit less wide, gaze drifting a bit further off. “He did call you a crazy cat lady once,” he murmurs, tenderness tracing his tone. She looks up and they lock eyes. “And a filthy goat farmer.”

Her jaw drops, an almost startled sputter of a laugh tumbling out of her agape mouth. “That _shit_.”

“Yeah,” he snickers, shaking his head back and forth. “But you knew that already. Don’t pretend like you didn’t.”

A small snort huffs out of her. “He told me my night muttering was _cute_ ,” she says, almost to herself, her eyes ticking dreamily away for just a fraction of a second before returning to Steve with a steely glare. “He really told you he thought I was _possessed_?”

Another chuckle, another crooked smile. Another wistful pull in his chest as he nods. “Only at first. He never did find that 666 tattoo on you, though.”

“Very funny.”

He reaches out and lazily drops his palm to her blue jean covered knee, thumb softly stroking atop the fabric. “He did think it was cute,” he admits with a reflective air. “He loved your weird, crazy mumblings just like he loved all your other… craziness.”

Her gaze shifts, moving off towards the back wall, the one separating the living room from the nursery. “She’s starting to babble in her sleep,” she says dreamily. “I hear it on the monitor sometimes.”

“Yeah, I know,” he replies with a grin. “She’s gonna be just as nuts as you. And _you_ get to deal with it.”

She languidly pivots her head back towards him, only a barely there smile cracking at his joke. “I look for him,” she starts, a sudden glistening growing in her eyes – not quite tears, but a searing solemnity all the same. “Everyday, I look at Ava… and I try to find James. I try to see him in her.”

Steve merely nods, a thick breath hitching in his chest, a swell of emotion clogging his throat as he hears not only her words – the sentiment – but his name. _James_. How long has it been since she said his name? How long has it been since he uttered it himself? _Bucky. Buck._

“I mean,” she goes on, her gaze ticking away again, face softening into a relaxed expression as she thinks about the gentle curve of her daughter’s lips, the dimple in her chin, the bright cerulean of her big, smiling eyes. “She looks like him,” she states with a crooked grin. “Everyday, I think she looks more like him.”

Again, he nods. There’s no denying it. Ava is her father’s daughter, his features growing more prominent daily. His lips and chin and eyes. His long, lean fingers. His smile.

“She looked at me the other day,” he murmurs softly, the words being cut off by an unintentional chuckle. “While I was changing her diaper.” Tessa glances back at him, inclines her head on her arm as she watches him speak. “It was pretty bad,” he breathes out with a raised brow and a subtle shake of his head. “And I told her so… told her it was a hell of a mess and she owed me big for cleaning it all up.” Another short laugh rumbles up his chest, but the smile fades a bit from his eyes as he goes on to say, “The look she gave me… I could actually _hear_ him calling me a punk. That look… that was pure Bucky.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out softly, reaching down and placing her hand over his, still resting on her knee. “I think she’s gonna grow up to be a huge flirt too.”

“Oh, God,” he barks out amid a thick laugh. “If she’s half as bad as Bucky was back in the day…” He shakes his head wistfully, feels an odd sensation in his chest, almost like a nervous bubbling. _Bucky._ Saying his name, seeing his face – letting himself see his face – in his mind’s eye, it releases something within him. A thick swell of grief. An awesome wave of relief. A bright – and also bitter – sense of joy and hope. It feels as if a wall has come down around him, a barrier that’s kept him cut off from… everything. And he wants to say it again. _Bucky. Buck._ He wants to hear her breathe out, _James. Jamie._ He wants – even knowing it will never happen – he _desperately_ wants to hear Ava call out, _Dada_ … hear that beautifully uttered word cutting through her sweet baby ramblings.

She said her first word just the other day. Steve insisted she did, anyway. _Nana_. Through the indiscernible babbling as she pounded maniacally at the tray of her highchair, she said – clear as day, while reaching out for the fruit in his hand – _nana._

“Great,” Tessa huffed when he called out to her, made her hurry into the kitchen half-dressed for work. She’d bent down beside the smiling, bouncing, banana-clad baby, leaned in and captured her tiny sticky hand in her mouth, cooing as she licked freshly mashed fruit from her fingertips, eliciting the most perfect peal of laughter from the six month old. “ _Mama_ ,” she spouted dramatically, just inches from the baby’s face, “feeds you everyday. From her own _boob_. And _banana_ gets first place?”

“Nana!” she chimed again, patting her mother’s face with one hand and reaching out to Steve with the other.

He handed her another chunk of banana and laughed, lost in a sort of simple delight he’d never quite felt before. He leaned in close and gave Ava a mirthful wink, telling her seriously, “I think you hurt _mama_ ’s feelings,” overenunciating the precious word, just as they all had been doing since her steady stream of babbles began. “Are you calling _mama_ Second Banana?”

Tessa had popped him upside the head for that, a thing that only made him laugh harder – his amusement serving to pull more delightful giggles from the baby as well. She’d gone back to her room to finish getting changed after that – after plopping a sloppy, dramatic raspberry of a kiss on Ava’s pudgy little cheek, and shoving the remnants of the banana into her own mouth with a victorious wink – leaving Steve to clean up the sticky baby.

He wiped down her hands and face, snickering as she pouted and spat at the cloth as he ran it over her mouth and chin, picked up his own breakfast dish and tossed out the banana peel, smiling brightly as another, “nana,” cut through the air behind him. He turned around to tell her it was all gone, no more… she’d have to wait ‘til tomorrow to partake of their breakfast ritual again. But the playful words died on his tongue as he saw that she wasn’t reaching towards the bowl of fruit on the table in front of her, wasn’t making any disgruntled noises as she tried to scoot in her chair and grab at what she wanted.

Instead, she was reaching for him, tiny fingers curling and unfurling in short grabby motions as she bounced in her seat, calling for _him_. “Nana,” slid once more from her lips, a call not for fruit, but for the man who sat with her every morning and read her the paper – _because that’s what old men do_ , Tessa had explained to Ava, teasing brow raised high – enunciating each word with an enthralling intonation no matter the subject, idly cutting a banana into tiny, mushy pieces that he’d press between her lips with the gentle, tender touch of a father.

Yes, he longs for Bucky. He longs for Ava’s _dada_. And Tessa’s Jamie.

But he also finds himself wanting to… let go.

Next week. Next week, it’ll be a _year_.

One year since half the world slipped into oblivion. One year since losing Bucky… and Sam. And Wanda. Vision. And so many others. He’s been leading group therapy sessions for just over a month now, sitting in rooms that are often filled to capacity with sorrowful faces, hearing the same horror stories over and over again, delivered from a different mouth each time. He’s told them all, more than a time or two, that they need to look to the future, to just keep planting one foot in front of the other until the steps forward feel natural again. He’s been spouting this advice – the words plucked straight from Sam’s mouth, from the heartfelt guidance he’d given in his own sessions to help vets move through the agony of PTSD, of loss and guilt and panic – for months. But living by it… that’s another thing altogether.

He thinks of Bucky – his best friend from Brooklyn – patting him on the back and telling him that he’ll be with him ‘til the end of the line. And he finds himself wondering where that end really is. He never truly believed it was on those train tracks spanning the Alps. He knew it wasn’t in seeing the cold, blank stare of the Winter Soldier. He never thought it’d be on a bright beautiful day, nestled in the Wakandan paradise.

Maybe there is no end. Not really. Maybe he’s still with them now, in the memories he clings to, the stories he and Tessa share… the smiles of his little girl. Maybe he’ll be with him forever.

He slowly slips his hand from beneath Tessa’s, spins it round to pull her fingers into a tight grip. “Let’s watch a movie,” he says with a soft, somber smile. “Something we haven’t seen in forever.”

“Something you can fall asleep to?” she asks with a cheeky lilt.

He nods. “Yeah, something I can fall asleep to.”


	18. Double Standard

_Wakanda, before:_

The bed is cold without him in it, the sheets slick as silken ice as her toes trail down the length of the mattress, body stretching almost painfully after having been curled so tight for so long. _All damn night_ , she thinks to herself, emitting a small grunt as she slowly turns to rise, her neck tightly spasming. _Freezing cold… and alone_ , _all damn night_.

He hears her rise from the other room, the soft padding of her feet on the hardwood as she makes her way to the bathroom, the squeal of a cat – and breathless curse and quick apology – as a tail is undoubtably stepped on. He turns away from the stove in time to see Eddie shoot out of the bedroom, skittering over to the couch – where a neatly folded blanket and pillow now lay, almost certainly waiting to be used for yet another night of restless sleep – and he smirks, shaking his head fondly. “Keep telling you not to get under her feet,” he issues out in a chiding whisper.

The shower starts and he releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Part of him longs to see her, hold her, kiss her good morning and share a nice breakfast. And yet he finds that his shoulders relax upon realizing that he has a good ten minutes or so before she’s out here, the solemn ache in his chest lightening just a bit at receiving this reprieve.

What is this feeling? This hesitancy, this _fear_ to just be in the same room together? What is this ache that buzzes through his head – shrill and hammering – and settles into his bones like a leaden weight?

_I don’t want to fight with you._

How many times does he have to say those words for her to see how true they are?

But it isn’t really about that, is it? Bucky _knows_. As much as he rails against her at every turn – _Can’t you just talk to me? When did you stop trusting me? Why won’t you_ listen _to me? Me. Me. Me._ – he damn well knows that she’s not the only one having trouble seeing the truth.

What was it she said last night? With tears in her eyes, just before stomping off and slamming the bedroom door in his face? What had those haunting words been?

_I didn’t make you this way! Don’t take it out on me just because you can’t let go of your own suffering!_

He had spent the better part of the night ruminating on those words, trying to dissect just what it was she meant by them. And just how it was that he was taking things out on her.

He’s trying to protect her, to keep her safe and away from any more potential harm. He’s trying to give her space – to heal, to _see_ , to understand – and trying to take a bit for himself as well. He’s trying to show her that he’s sorry, and so damn reticent. And committed to making sure that nothing like _that_ ever happens again.

Four days.

It had been four days of him camping out on the couch, insisting that she take the bed. Insisting that he _can’t_ lay in it beside her.

It had been four days of ever increasing guilt and seeming penance as her pained shout continued to echo in his ears, the sight of her recoiling from him in the dark playing in his mind’s eye on an endless loop.

It had been four days since he woke in the middle of the night – roused by Tessa’s soft voice somehow hammering into the violent, fretful trappings of a Hydra-filled nightmare – and reactively swung a metal arm so fiercely through the air that it cracked two of his wife’s ribs.

Four days since the streak of _not_ letting Hydra fuck up his life had been brought to a sudden and screeching halt.

There was something almost comforting about it to him, though. Not the hurting her… God, no. That part was just… awful. But the vindication that came from realizing they were still there, still lurking in his skull and in his enhanced muscle fibers – and in his damn weapon of an arm – there was something about that that made him feel justified. For still being so damn scared of Hydra all these years, scared of what they could do. For never letting go of the ever-looming, always-lurking _threat_ of them. For holding so tight to the _suffering_ he endured, packing the visceral memories away as ammunition for a fight that he always believed would one day still come.

_Shit._

The water in the bathroom shuts off just as he finishes up the last piece of French toast, that familiar knot returning in his gut as he flips off the stove and spins to place the now full plate on the kitchen table. He stares down at the setting. Platter of French toast. Rasher of bacon. Overflowing bowl of fresh berries. Steaming carafe of thick, dark coffee.

He turns back around to dig the maple syrup – a pricey import – out of the cabinet, and by the time he returns with it to the table, Tessa’s standing idly by her chair, hair dripping onto his old hoody slung about her shoulders, staring down at the layout in much the same way he had just been… muddled and unsure.

“Hey,” he breathes out, all other words catching oddly in his throat.

She looks up, her eyes puffy and bruised from lack of sleep, yet shining with a sudden warmth as she watches him place the syrup next to her plate. “This is… nice,” she mutters, still looming awkwardly behind the chair.

He clears his throat and reaches out to grab the carafe, proceeds to pour the delicious smelling coffee into the mug in front of her – being sure not to fill it _too_ full lest any slosh out when she stirs in the expected mounds of sugar. “Yeah,” he says simply, expertly avoiding her eyes as he pours his own cup and then leans over the table to serve the food onto both of their plates. “Well…”

She sits, the squeak of the chair being pulled across the wood finally pulling his focus back to her. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, almost a whisper, as her fingers wrap tightly around the steaming mug.

He follows her lead, dropping one more scoop of berries onto her plate before carefully lowering himself down into the seat across from her. “Yeah. Me too.”

“French toast,” she mutters with a sudden smile, casually pushing the food around on her plate. “I haven’t had French toast since… I don’t even know…”

“Day after our wedding,” he supplies, knowing with near certainty that it’s been since then for her too. After all, she barely ate anything but protein bars and coffee in the small bit of time between Costa Rica and her captivity, always too busy, too _on the run_ to grab anything more substantial. And he _knows_ they weren’t feeding her French toast up in Canada. He knows because he saw the footage… small meals served once a day, filled with something that had her retching and puking in the corner of that stale, cramped room until she gave up and ate nothing at all.

“Not sure what it’ll taste like,” he mumbles under his breath, his gaze flicking away from her face the moment those memories – the nearly constant-streaming replays – tumble into his consciousness. “Bread’s… different. But T’Challa managed to get us the good syrup at least.”

She releases a quick snort of a laugh – “ _Canadian_ maple syrup.” – and shakes her head with amusement. “Contraband from the one country that most wants me dead.”

His eyes shoot up then, a brief glare lingering as he says simply, “Please don’t say that.”

Her lips slam shut, face falling before swiftly setting into an irritated frown. It had been a _joke_. But he doesn’t seem to be able to handle jokes anymore. Too serious to even recognize them. Too weary to ever laugh.

He shoves a hulking bite of food into his mouth and relishes the time it takes to chew, the long moment of blessed silence where he’s not expected to speak. She says nothing either, simply stares heatedly down at her full plate as she sips her coffee. He trains his attention on his food, idly chases a blueberry around with his fork, all the while desperately trying to keep from watching her from the corner of his eye.

She doesn’t eat. As he leans over the table, shoulders bent, eyes cast down, devouring his breakfast, she merely sits – painfully still – and sips at her coffee. It’s not that she isn’t hungry. And it certainly isn’t that the food doesn’t look – and smell – amazing. It’s just that she’s fairly certain nothing more than the scalding, sugary liquid is going to be able to make it past the thick clog of unshed tears – and unspoken words – stuck in her throat.

He’s halfway through his meal when he finally looks up at her, finally lets his eyes rise to linger on this face that he so desperately adores. This face that still looks so thin and weary, exhausted and… sad. His fork drops with a clatter, both hands rising to scrub at his eyes in frustration, rake through his hair as he leans back and sighs. “Just… say it,” he says, tone almost pleading.

Glassy green eyes peer at him from over the rim of her mug, unblinking. And she shakes her head.

“I _can’t_ do it,” he shoots out with a bitter edge. “I said I was sorry. I said it last night – I say it every damn night – that I just… can’t.”

Nothing. No words. No tick of her lips nor shift in her gaze. She gives him _nothing_.

“Damnit, Tessa. I… I don’t want to fight with you.”

The half empty mug thunks on the table, her fingers still coiled tightly about the handle. “You think _I_ want to fight with _you_?” she asks, voice dripping with incredulity. “I didn’t start a _fight_ , James. I just asked you to come to bed with me.”

He shakes his head, jaw setting harshly. “I can’t do that right now. I told you that. I _keep fucking telling you that_.”

“You know what I hear when you say that?” she asks, leaning forward and leveling him with a pointed stare. “You’d rather hold onto your _past_ than hold onto _me_.”

His lip curls in something akin to disgust. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Those dreams,” she seethes, voice rising in volume. “Those _fucking_ dreams – ”

“And I’m the only one with _dreams_?” he interrupts blithely, his own voice pitching over hers.

“I don’t know what happened to make them come back like this,” she goes on, each word sharp, slicing through the air between them, slicing through the words he piles on top.

“You don’t know? You don’t know why all the… things that haunt me might be coming back right now?”

“This isn’t my fault!”

“I never said it was!”

“Why _don’t_ you?!” she erupts, slamming her palms to the table. “Why don’t you just fucking say it?”

He looks away, shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can’t even look at me without seeing it, can you? You can’t even _look_ at me without thinking about what they did to me… and about what Hydra did to you.” She halts her accusations just long enough to pull in a shaky breath. “I’m not stupid, James. I know when I first got back… I know you were just _worried_. All the time. Because I was sick. But now? Now that I’m here and… healthy…”

He snorts indignantly. “You’re not _healthy_.”

“Well neither are you!”

“You think I don’t know that?!” he spits out, rising so quickly that his chair is sent colliding with the cabinets behind him, cracking the thick wooden back. “I know I’m not… _right_. Damnit, Tessa! That’s why I can’t be in the same bed with you!”

She rolls her eyes, reaching up to swiftly swipe away the tears that errantly spill from them as she does so. “Such bullshit,” is muttered under her breath as she folds her arms tightly around her center, curling into herself.

“It’s not…” He drops his gaze and pulls a long, supposedly calming breath in through his nose. “It’s not bullshit. I almost killed you once because of those stupid, fucking dreams. I… I _hurt_ you, just the other night. And I’m not gonna do that again. I _can’t_ do that again.”

She nods, a single, slow nod. “I know.”

He looks over at her, his stare heavy and pained. “You don’t think I _want_ for them to go away?”

And her own eyes darken as they lock onto his, holding that aching gaze for a long moment before dropping away. “But you can’t stop thinking about your time with them – with Hydra – because you can’t stop thinking about what happened to _me_.”

There’s no question to her voice, doesn’t need to be. He can stay silent and broody all he wants, shutting down after each vicious night terror, pulling away when she offers him comfort. But she can see the way he looks at her now – the way he’s been looking at her for well over a month, ever since they moved into their new Wakandan home. Ever since they were given the time to breathe and settle, to just be Tessa and Bucky, not a dying woman and her ever-faithful husband. Not a mutant warrior and her super soldier partner. Not a pair of heroes turned international fugitives. Ever since they slipped delicately into the silence surrounding them only to find that the shouts of former captors and cries of their former selves had been waiting for just this opportunity – just this soft, deceptive silence – so they could break through and commence their torture once again.

It started with _her_ nightmares, just two days after moving into their home… two days after christening nearly every surface, lying wound together on the sofa, the bed, the kitchen floor, spilling delighted and exhausted giggles into one another as they talked about what to do next… who to be now. Just two days after telling each other that this was a blessed new beginning and promising to let go of the pain of the past, at least for now, at least while their only responsibilities were to rest and heal and _be_. Just two days after _that_ , she woke with a petrified scream, sobs stifling her breaths as she shot upright and bellowed into the night. Red light rimmed her eyes, shots of electricity leapt from her fingertips, the powers she had managed to control and contain through so much, going up in literal flames as sweat sizzled on her skin.

He had comforted her, of course. Soothed her until she could once again hold back the crackling energy and the deep _hurt_. But the sense of pain than emanated from him – the overwhelming surge of fear – seemed to stick to his very soul after that night, only growing more potent as his own awful dreams sprang loose in the weeks that followed. Dreams that left him recoiling from her in the dark of the night, rising and fleeing or simply pushing her away as he, time and time again, refused any comfort for himself.

“Just say it,” she repeats, tone low and frigid. “You look at me and it _reminds you_. It reminds you of what they did to you. And now you can’t even look at me at all.”

His jaw bobs listlessly for a long moment, silence filling his gaping mouth, the assertion he feels in his gut refusing to spill from his lips.

Yes, of course that’s it. That’s it entirely. Or, perhaps not entirely. It isn’t just the thought of her being _hurt_ in the same way he was that’s brought all those memories back to the surface. It isn’t just the fact that he’s only recently even been able to think about the things she endured – because for so much of the past several months every bit of energy he had was focused on just making sure she was _physically_ okay, making sure she’d even just survive. And shutting out all thoughts that she might not. It’s also the fact that, now, here, in this whole new world, this whole new life, he cannot control _anything_.

His home is gone. His friends are gone. His work is gone. All that’s left is her. And, yeah, right now, every time he looks at her, he just sees a reminder. All he sees is Lobe or Sublime or… all the others who put hands on her, experimented on her, stomped and kicked and beat her, shocked her and shoved needles into her and sucked her dry, turned her into a murderous monster… all he sees is what they did to his sweet and smart and beautiful girl.

And in the background of each and every one of those terrible dreamscapes, he sees himself. Not the soldier, not the POW tortured and brainwashed by a villainous organization. No, he sees Bucky Barnes, the young, confused, innocent man – the weak, broken, slacken prisoner – who never protected that _soldier_ from his captors, never fought back as they beat and stomped and shocked the soul out of him. Never fought _enough_ , anyway. He sees the man who failed _himself_. And in so many ways failed his own wife too.

And for the life of him, he can’t seem to be able to control his chaotic mind – his spinning thoughts and turbulent emotions and irrepressible fears – enough to bury that man down deep where he belongs.

“I’m sorry,” she says, tone soft and low. “I’m sorry that… what happened to me triggered all these memories for you. And I’m sorry that you’re stuck here, on the run because of the things that I did. And I’m sorry that you don’t have Steve… or your therapist to help you…” A tight, shuddering breath forces its way out of her chest amid a soft sniffle. “But I… I want to help you.”

He shakes his head slowly. “You can’t.”

“Then… what? What the hell am I supposed to do?!” she cries out, the tears now flowing freely.

He looks away, has to lest he begins to cry as well – and damnit he will not put that on her too – and shakes his head again. “I don’t know.”

She throws her hands dramatically up in the air. “I thought… I thought we decided we weren’t going to do this… this…” And she rises from the table, beginning a slow, methodical pace along the kitchen floor. “You told me to trust you, to talk to you. To let you in. To tell you when I was… hurting. _You_ told me that. For years! You’d get so fucking _pissed_ at me for _not talking to you_. But you _refuse_ to do it for me?”

_Of course, I do_ , he aches to say. _How could I ever lay my hurt on you after all you’ve been through?_

That’s the truth after all. Those are the words that thrum sincerely through him. But he knows what her reaction would be to those words. He knows that she would merely scoff and tell him that she’s fine, that she doesn’t need him taking care of her like that, treating her like a child. He _knows_ that those are the last words she wants to hear. But they’re also the only ones he has.

“I know I’m not… perfect,” she declares, finally stilling her pace, fisting her hands and placing them atop her hips. “I know I’m still… a little fucked up. And I… I know that I still have nightmares too. And I know that I sometimes lash out, and hurt you. And…”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head adamantly. “No, you’re not doing anything wrong.”

She lets out a small huff and looks up, locks onto his eyes. “It’s always this same double standard with you. Don’t you see that? I’m allowed to hurt. But not you. I’m _supposed_ to share my pain with you, so you can help… so you can, what… carry _my_ fucking burden? But when you’re the one suffering, I’m supposed to just step back and let you handle it. Right? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re the big strong man and you can just… handle everything?”

“No. I know…” He shakes his head and looks up at her with a desperately searching gaze, seeming utterly at a loss. “Baby… it’s just…”

She stands still, allowing the awkward silence to slice through the room, waiting for him to say whatever he needs to say. Whatever he thinks might explain this away. But he’s got nothing. That’s plain to see.

“Okay,” she breathes out after a long, aching moment. “Okay,” as she leans over and collects her coffee, spinning on a heel to head back into the bedroom to get dressed… to get away from him.

He waits until she’s gone, waits until the bedroom door slams shut with a thundering echo. And he lets out a long, deflating sigh. “Happy anniversary,” he mutters then, a declaration left to linger achingly in the otherwise empty room.


	19. Shelved Memories

_New York, after:_

It’s their third anniversary. Today. Today marks three years since they _officially_ bound themselves together. In name. In promises sworn to God, before their friends… their family. _Three years._ And yet, “It feels like it was… I don’t know, last week,” Tessa mutters, her fingers trailing languidly over the pictures laid out before her.

Pepper cranes her neck from her spot on the couch, casually bouncing baby Morgan in her lap as she looks down beyond the woman sitting cross legged on the floor and at the myriad photos sprawled along the hardwood. “That one,” she states, tone filled with a bright sort of enthusiasm that seems to so often be missing from people nowadays. She points at a picture near the center, one of the happy couple cutting into their two-tiered wedding cake. Bucky’s right arm is draped about Tessa’s hip, pressing her to him as she leans forward, eager to slice into some red velvet. “I remember taking that one,” she breathes out simply.

Steve had cautioned against this little project, when Pepper mentioned it to him a few weeks ago. She had recalled giving Bucky a box of pictures from their wedding – handing it over to the forlorn man just months after they’d been married, weeks after Tessa was taken from them, locked away and tortured – and wondered where they went. Steve found the box buried in the back of the closet at their old apartment in the compound, opened it just long enough to thumb through what was inside, but not so long as to actually _see_ any of the happy, smiling faces reflected within. He delivered the box to Pepper, told her that giving them to Tessa might be a bad idea – “It’s still… fresh. It might just make her… hurt.” – but stopped his objections at those words of caution.

When she swept in this morning, Happy trailing behind her with _several_ boxes, not just of wedding pictures, but of dozens of frames, a few thickly bound leather albums, and photos she’d printed of all the Avengers over the years, Steve had merely offered a sad, put-on smile and left with Ava tucked under his arm, sunhat draped ridiculously over her face, on their way to the still mostly empty park.

“If you’re up for it,” the cheery strawberry blonde had said when Tessa first stumbled in, brows crossed in confusion. “I thought we could take the day to go through some _happy_ times. And then maybe… dress this place up with memories?”

Tessa had been reluctant. She honestly had planned on going straight to work and barricading herself in her office until the urge to cry had dissipated enough that she could speak and breathe and _move_ without nearly choking. That plan was certainly more her speed. But the look on Pepper’s face, the sheer _love_ that wafted off of her as she stood in the middle of Tessa’s apartment, bouncing Morgan on one hip, holding a bag that had so many beautiful memories tucked away inside it in the other… well, how could she say no?

“I like this one,” she states simply, plucking a photo from the floor and raising it up for Pepper to see. It’s one of Steve and Bucky and Tony all sitting casually down at a table together, each man sans suit jacket, having given into the Costa Rican heat, smiling in a way that the three together very rarely – if ever – would. “I’m not sure if it’d be better in a frame, or as part of blackmail, though,” she jokes with a crooked smile.

The soft grin on Pepper’s face stiffens – along with her shoulders – and she lets out an odd sort of hum, noncommittal, unreadable.

Tessa feels her chest clench a bit as she turns to set the photo back down, lets her gaze travel over the others before landing on another with Tony at its heart. She stares at the picture for a long, silent moment, letting the stilled image slowly melt into the memory being conjured in her mind. Of dancing. The heat from their bodies radiating into one another’s, his hand pressed against the sweaty pink lace lining her back as he led her merrily around the makeshift dancefloor, laughing and softly singing along as the two attempted to slow dance to Metallica, music thrumming through their veins… along with both merriment and rum.

“How is he?” she asks then, voice small, eyes still directed down at the photos before her, too nervous to aim at the woman behind.

“Tony?” Pepper asks, knowing full well whom she’s speaking of. Hell, Tessa asks about him every time they meet… has to ask because he refuses to talk to her himself, save the polite small talk at the handful of dinners Pep had organized for them over the pat year. “Oh, he’s… Tony.”

Tessa nods numbly, but says nothing more. She hasn’t ever asked – not Tony nor Pepper – for any explanation, any _reason_ as to why he decided to so fully shut her out of his life. He lost Peter. He lost… the battle. And they all had to deal with that their own way. That’s what she told herself anytime the questions arose. But she can’t help but think – though she’ll never ask, lest the question actually be answered – that he refuses to speak to her, to even _see_ her, because he _knows_ that she’s the one to blame. For all the guilt and disgrace that slid off of him when he finally returned to Earth, weeks after the Snap, she was certain even then that he _knew_ she should have stopped Thanos once he made it to their planet. He may have failed in the attempt to keep him at bay. But she was the ultimate backup plan. And she’d let them all down when it counted most.

“How’s Ava?” drifts suddenly down to her in a light, enthusiastic tone. “I barely even got to say hello before Steve swept her away.”

“Yeah,” Tessa breathes out, reaching out to move some photos around, reorganizing them _again_. “Well, Monday is park day.”

“He takes her to the park every Monday?”

She nods absently, picking up a picture of Bucky and Clint, heartily laughing, nearly bent over each other, each face split with such joy and uncontained delight. In the corner, she can see Laura looking on, smiling brightly over the rim of a half-full daquiri. And her chest clenches. “Yeah,” she chokes out, more a grunt than a word.

Pepper hums again from behind, the thoughtful sound piquing her interest. She sets down the picture – and with it the bubbling grief over Clint’s _whole damn family_ – and turns to toss the woman a questioning glance. Pepper looks down at her with a crinkled brow. “Is he living here?” she asks, tone low and slow.

Tessa twists around, leaning her side against the sofa as she looks up at the blonde. “No,” she answers with a shrug. “You’re the one who set him up in the apartment across the hall, remember?”

She nods, face still a pensive and oddly unreadable mask. “No, I know. It’s just… he’s really always here, right?”

“He takes care of Ava while I work,” she replies a bit flippantly, a hard defensiveness taking root inside.

But Pepper is anything but accusatory, not even a hint of judgment seeping from her when she utters, “He takes care of you too,” without a question to her voice.

Tessa’s lips part, mouth bobbing open for a moment. But no words come out. Certainly no denial, no… because it’s true. But also no addendum, no, _we take care of each other_ , even though that’s the obvious retort that immediately springs to mind. That’s the honest-to-God truth that both she and Steve know and realize and understand, and yet never speak aloud.

“This building is practically empty, you know,” she goes on simply. “If you wanted, you could move into a different apartment. A bigger apartment.” She shrugs. “Now that Tony and I have the house, you could even move up to the penthouse… if you want to.”

There’s something about the way she says it, cautious, hesitant, like she’s afraid the offering will be met with some sort of vitriol, vehemently rejected. It sets off a flutter of nervous energy in Tessa’s gut, her own sudden unease melding in with the slight apprehension being put off by the woman beside her. “The penthouse?”

Pepper nods. “There’s so much extra room. Wide open space. We’d have to babyproof some things, but it would certainly give Ava more room to toddle around.” A sweet, serene smile splits her face. “Natasha said she’s _so close_ to walking.”

“Yeah,” Tessa breathes out gently – hesitantly – anxiety steadily building.

“And… there are extra rooms,” she goes on softly. “Four bedrooms. So, Steve could stay there too… if you wanted. If it might be… easier.”

A sudden, surprised laugh chokes out of her. “You think Steve and I should become roommates?” she asks, shocked smirk painted on her face.

But Pepper’s expression doesn’t change in the least. She doesn’t laugh or smirk or… wink with innuendo. She just continues to gaze tenderly at the woman before her, her soft blue eyes leaking a sort of understanding, a perceptiveness that sets Tessa’s nerves aflame. “I think you and Steve should be whatever you want to be,” she says simply. “Whatever you _need_ to be.”

She sputters a breath, mouth gaping once again. “I…” she starts, trailing off for a brief moment before swallowing down a thick bubble of bile. “I don’t know what that means.”

Pepper tucks Morgan into her right arm, the baby snuffling contentedly, pressed against her mother, and she reaches out to delicately tuck an errant curl back behind Tessa’s ear, her left hand falling gently to her shoulder after doing so. “This world,” she starts, taking a breath before going on, losing – for just a moment – sight of where she can or _should_ go on to. “Things are so different now. For all of us. For everyone. We’ve been blessed,” she says with a bright smile and quick glance at the baby nestled to her. “With Ava and Morgan… with a _future_. But that future… it will never be what we thought. Or hoped.” Her eyes tick down to the dozens of happy, smiling faces spread out on the floor below, so many of them only enduring in these photographs, snuffed out forever in the light of day, blown into the silent breeze… gone forever.

Tessa follows her gaze, her own eyes landing on one picture in particular, of her and Bucky standing at the altar, hands clasped tightly together, eyes trained intently on one another. Behind them stands Steve, a wistful, joyous look on his face as he watches his two best friends… as he joins them together.

“It isn’t fair,” she speak softly, the words slipping from her lips in an unintended, breathy whisper. A fire burns at the back of her eyes, thick and sweltering, almost blinding her as hot tears begin to build.

“No,” Pepper mutters from behind. “It isn’t.”

She slams her eyes shut, jerks her head to-and-fro, almost violently. “He said he’d never leave me,” she intones thickly, hearing the words reverberate in her ears even now, more than a year after he’d turned to dust in her hands. That promise, made time and time again because of her irrational fear, because of her unfortunate past. _Everyone leaves_ , she’d bemoaned too many times, a subconscious ploy to hear his words again. That promise, heard now only in her dreams, in a familiar, faraway voice – _Not me. Not ever._ – reminding her that promises, as always, are simply made to be broken.

“He didn’t want to,” she hears, the soft voice now emanating from her side. She opens her eyes and looks up to see Pepper seated on the floor next to her, a snoozing Morgan cradled close as she leans in and wraps her free arm around Tessa’s shoulders, pulling her now trembling form to her side. “None of them _wanted_ to leave,” she whispers into her hair. “But they did. They’re gone. And now we all have to figure out how to go on without them.”

She snuffles into her friend, squeezes her eyes tightly shut to try and stave off the tears. “I don’t want to,” spills out of her, a pitiful, petulant – _sincere_ – whine.

“But you have to,” she says simply, a bare truth to her voice. “Ava needs you. We all need you… those of us who are left. Your patients. Your friends… family. Steve.”

She looks up at Pepper, breath still hitching as she fights off the sobs, pulling away a bit before locking onto that sympathetic stare. “I can’t… I don’t…”

She reaches up with long, lithe fingers to pet back Tessa’s hair, eyes never veering from the woman’s desperate gaze. “This world is different,” she tells her, words dripping with a solemn sincerity. “Everything is _different_. Who we are to each other… our places and roles… our expectations… it’s all so, so different, Tessa. We’re all just clinging to whomever we can, trying to hold on in whatever ways we can. And that’s okay. That’s how we survive. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

She nods, a barely perceptible twitch of the head, and she tucks herself back into Pepper’s side, and weeps.

000

When Steve and Ava return later that afternoon, it’s with two large pizzas, the boxes getting a steady beat drummed atop them as he precariously balances both the food and the bouncing baby in his arms.

“Hi there,” Pepper coos enthusiastically as she plucks Ava from his grip. “How’s the sweet girl?”

“Well, we played in the sand for about an hour,” Steve mutters as he ducks into the kitchen to deposit the pizzas on the counter. “So… dirty.”

“Uh oh,” she mouths playfully, nodding along with all of the baby’s excited babbling, bouncing in time with her animated clapping.

His brows pull together in confusion as he steps back in the room, sees Morgan sleeping in the stroller, boxes neatly packaged up, a handful of newly framed pictures populating shelves throughout the space. But… “Where’s Tess?”

She looks up at him with an almost mournful expression. “She’s lying down,” she says, a false zeal still wrapping about her voice as she merrily bounces Ava on her hip. “Migraine.”

“Oh,” he breathes out simply, not uttering those words that beg to rise up his throat. _I told you this was a bad idea_. “Well, I got plenty of pizza, if you’re hungry.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. But I should really get Morgan back. Trust me, she is _pure_ Tony when she wakes from her nap. You do _not_ want to be exposed to that.” He smiles gently as she hands Ava back over, slowly freeing her long necklace from the chubby little fist before leaning in and planting a kiss on her temple. “I’m going to have those boxes put into the storage unit downstairs. If you wouldn’t mind moving them into the hall for pickup in the morning?” He nods. “You can feel free to look through them,” she suggests delicately. “We picked out some of our favorites and put them into frames, but… well, there are a lot of really great memories in there, Steve.”

“Yeah,” he nods again. “I know. I’m sure. I’m just… I don’t think I can really go through them just yet.”

“Okay,” she breathes out easily, her face falling a bit despite the tender smile still perking her lips. She gathers the stroller and heads for the door, offering a bright and airy, “Bye-bye, sweet girl,” to Ava amid a warm, comforting squeeze of Steve’s bicep on her way out.

With Pepper gone, some of the light in the room seems to fade and a somber quiet drops and encases them like a thick, low-hanging fog. Steve’s eyes bounce around the room – even as his arms cradle and gently jostle the still-babbling baby – and he takes in the new additions to the décor.

There were already several pictures of Tessa and Bucky – and of the rest of the Avengers – sprinkled throughout the space. Pepper had made sure of that when she first put this place together all those years ago, trying to create a homey abode for the nights and weekends when her head of genetic medical research would have to remain in the city. Everywhere he looked – it seemed – there were reminders of what – _who_ – he had lost. Depictions of memories he never wanted to forget, yet couldn’t bear to relive.

He slowly meanders over to the sprawling bookcase in the corner, stopping in front of the photo that makes him smile – makes him _hurt_ – more than all the others combined. “We were pretty handsome back then, huh?” he asks the baby in his arms, his voice soft and wistful. He shifts her to his hip, pivots her toward the shelf as he reaches out with his free hand and takes hold of the small, framed, black and white picture.

  1. A brief photo op coordinated with the Army, a chance for the press to catch a glimpse of Captain America and his Howling Commandoes before they headed back out to the front.



Steve chuckles a bit under his breath as he recalls how irritated Bucky was by the whole thing. Back in Brooklyn, back before the war, Bucky Barnes _never_ shied away from being the center of attention, or the focus of a photo. He’d put a camera’s flash to shame with his brilliant million-watt smile. He’d charm the pants off of every man, woman, and child within a two-mile radius with little more than a nod and wink. But once he put on that uniform, rifle slung easily over his shoulder, he was a different man entirely. All business… a proficient, skilled, _serious_ man.

“You know,” he mutters just above Ava’s crown as he leans over and replaces the photo. “In the history books… and that old Smithsonian exhibit, everyone always liked to paint your dad as being this happy-go-lucky, super-charming ladies’ man. And he was,” he intones, pulling back a bit to give the baby an all too earnest look. “But he was also the finest soldier I ever worked with.”

He shifts Ava to his other side, patting her back gently as he continues to stroll along, taking in the old and new photos alike. There’s one of Tessa and Sam – already drunk, if he recalls that New Year’s correctly – doing shots out on a balcony. One of Natasha and Bruce – in a tender moment rarely shared with the world – slow dancing at Bucky and Tessa’s wedding. One from the infamous girls’ night – the drunken bet that resulted in a tatted ass – showing the sly, guarded smiles of Nat and Maria Hill alongside the rather preoccupied grins of Wanda and Tessa. But still, it’s the ones of Bucky that draw his eye most.

He hears Ava’s mumbles mitigate just as a warm wetness blooms near his shoulder, tiny, barely there teeth pressing into him as she begins gnawing at his collar. “When we were kids,” he starts up again, speaking freely to the girl, feeling no need to pull her away from his shirt. If chewing on him helps lessen the awful pain of teething, he’d let her bite holes through all his clothes, no matter how much her mother wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It was like he hid his serious side from people, never let anyone know how smart he was. Or how… thoughtful. He never wanted them to see anything other than that dumb, charming smile. Probably easier that way. I mean, nobody really expected anything out of him then, you know?”

Ava lets out a tiny squeal, releasing his shirt just long enough to lean back and pound out a quick, gleeful beat on his chest with her tiny fists.

Another small chuckle travels up his throat and out his mouth amid an almost chiding, “You don’t ever get to be like that, angel. We already know how smart _you_ are.”

He runs his fingers along a lower shelf, picking up a little dust along the way as his eyes trail over another old black and white, this one of Bucky – decked out in a clean, pressed uniform – standing between his mom and sister with his arms draped about their shoulders. He’s pretty sure he took that picture himself, in fact, the day his best friend shipped out.

“Yeah,” he breathes out subtly, pulling his fingers away from the photo and opting instead to twirl them loosely through Ava’s ever-thickening curls. “He couldn’t play that game at war, though. Not once everyone got to see what he was really made of.” His arms tighten, almost subconsciously, around the little girl in his grasp, his gaze ticking off towards a new photo in the lineup, one of Bucky on his wedding day, bright blue eyes – precisely the same as Ava’s – crinkling round the edges as he tugs his bride close to his side.

“He was a hero, you know?” he says, his voice wavering a bit. “Not just in the war. And not just as a soldier. Or an Avenger.” He blinks his eyes away, no longer able to take in the luminescence of that snapshot, the sheer joy and utter love radiating off of it, pouring from Bucky’s smile. From Tessa’s. “He saved me all the time. All the time.” His lips press lightly into Ava’s hair, still a bit sweaty from being tucked into the sun hat that she’d angrily shook off for the final time just out in the hall. “Saved your mama too,” he tells her, barely a whisper. “All the time.”

Ava pulls back with a small, disgruntled grunt and lets out another sharp squeal, the ridiculous sound pulling a snort of a laugh from the otherwise somber man. “Mama,” she babbles out, the word finally – just this week – becoming part of her vocabulary, and seeming to have already taken root as a favorite. “Ma… mama… maaaa!”

“Okay, okay” he relents. “Guess I said the magic word, huh?” He turns away from all the shelved memories and begins plodding carefully down the hall to Tessa’s room, Ava tightly fisting and pulling at his T-shirt, pounding on his chest and babbling in excitement as he goes. “I know,” he tells her softly before stepping into the dark, silent room. “But mama’s got a headache, so we got to be _real_ quiet.”

He peeks his head in, sees Tessa curled into a tight ball on her side, seeming to take up almost no room at all on the king size bed. He slowly makes his way over, patting idly at Ava’s back while she twists and squirms in his grip. “Hey,” she mutters softly, pulling out a tucked away hand and waving briefly at the two as they approach.

He can see that she’s been crying, not that it surprises him in the least. And he’s certain she’s in pain, the narrowed slits of her eyes making it abundantly clear that even the hint of light seeping in from the hall is hitting her like daggers. She scoots back just a bit, making room for him to lower himself to the edge of the bed. “Pepper said you have a migraine,” he metes out softly, holding tight to the wiggle monster in his left hand as he brushes away some hair from Tessa’s forehead with his right. “Been a while since you had one of those.”

She shrugs beneath the sheet, a barely there movement, and lets her eyes flutter shut again.

“What happened?” he asks, not sure that he really wants to know. Not sure that he doesn’t already know.

But she has no answer for him, not really. What happened? Nothing. Everything. Feelings happened. Guilt. Grief. The ongoing struggle to hold on. The never ending fight to let go.

She feels his hand at her temple, his fingers tender and delicate as they brush away her hair. And she wants to cry all over again. Break apart and weep. Sob. She wants the heat from his hand to fade away, to ice over, his flesh to turn to metal. She wants that cool, solid press of a metal thumb between her eyes, the only thing _ever_ to help her through these times. She craves that touch. Yearns for it in a way that makes her stomach spin and swirl, and a thick heat to collect in her core.

“I’m gonna go give the baby a bath,” he says after a long, silent moment.

There’s a hint of disappointment in his voice, a thread of defeat. As though he thought that she might actually answer his unanswerable question. As though she might actually split herself open in front of him, lay herself bear in a way he longed to do himself.

But she offers no reaction to his tone, nor to the hit of nervous energy that spikes off of him. Instead, she curls further into herself, tightening her lids over her still burning eyes. She waits for him to rise and leave, and then… then she pulls on the delicate thread of the past, tugging on the memories that sustain her, eager to fall headfirst into them, despite feeling with each and every tug the gossamer thread that binds them to her weakening and beginning to unravel.


	20. Peace

_Wakanda, before:_

Peace. Dark and quiet _peace_. A thing he’s never really known before. Not that he can recall, anyway. Typically, the pitch dark and utter quiet set Bucky instantly on edge, eliciting a sharp sense of foreboding that such pure tranquility should never provoke.

But not now. Not tonight. No. Tonight he feels… calm. This – he’s certain, despite having had all traces of such a thing wiped from his very soul some 70 years ago – is _peace_.

His eyes remain open, ticking up towards the ceiling as he just barely shifts beneath the covers, soft focus taking in nothing at all, gaze simply lingering in the dark. His ears – as always – are perked, attuned to the subtle purrs emanating from the armchair in the corner where Eddie and Phoebe lay curled together in a fluffy heap. Taking in the relaxed rhythm of his wife’s heartbeat, now nearly as steady as his own. Now… finally.

It took time, but Tessa – begrudgingly and, truthfully, rather resentfully – eventually relented and started therapy a couple of months ago. Bucky knew it was hard for her. He knew what her main objection – her primary concern – to seeking treatment really was. There had been a fear instilled in her from a very young age, an unyielding desire to keep anyone from knowing her secrets, knowing who she truly was. And it was not paranoia – nor was it an inflated need for privacy – that fueled this fear. For her, _not_ sharing things was a survival skill, one that needed to be continually honed, especially as the world grew more and more hostile towards mutants.

He knew how hard it was for her to even just sit down that first time with Dr. Abara, let alone to go back, to see her consistently. To say he was _proud_ … well, that single word couldn’t come close to describing how he felt.

He had listened endlessly to her talk about the rather peculiar doctor, this odd yet brilliant woman, who began studying at psychiatric hospitals in Johannesburg, Berlin, and London before spending decades learning the spiritual ways of indigenous peoples around the globe, and then finally moving on to dive deep into neuroscience, using Wakandan technology to see how the human brain processes emotions. It didn’t take him long to realize – thanks to her enthusiastic retellings of the doctor’s life and studies – that simply by sharing parts of herself with Tessa, Dr. Abara had begun to earn his wife’s trust and admiration enough to get her to finally open up.

That’s why it didn’t take much convincing to get him to go talk to the doctor himself. And it hadn’t been bad either. Not for him, anyway. Sure, Tessa would still come home exhausted and, at times, enraged after being made to lay herself bare. But Bucky had been through the magical _talking cure_ before. And, truth be told, he felt far more comfortable with this new doctor than he ever had with his kooky therapist back in New York.

It was the _other_ therapy that had him on edge.

It all came following a long and agonizing discussion with T’Challa. That day that the proverbial shit hit the fan, the day that he and Tessa were supposed to be celebrating their first wedding anniversary, Bucky went to speak to the king about… some sort of permit, was it? And he ended up spilling out in rather vivid detail all that had happened that terrible night – just days prior – when he _hurt_ his wife, broke her ribs, heard her pained shout, and ultimately felt the awful certainty of his past creep back into his waking life.

“You mustn’t think this is all you are,” T’Challa had told him, that all-too-familiar warm and soothing smile perking his lips. “Or all that you can be.” He casually led him through the palace halls, up to the lab that Bucky knew so well after spending his first several weeks in Wakanda sitting vigil there. “You were _injured_ by your past,” he explained in a soft and sincere tenor. “And I have yet to see an injury that my sister has been unable to heal.”

Shuri was a little too delighted to dig into his brain, to help _fix_ the neural pathways that had been corrupted by Hydra’s brainwashing. She explained how her tech could detect all of the small fissures and misfires, how she could find the tiny – undetectable to anyone else on the planet – _glitches_ , and then mend them.

His brain had been damaged, just as Tessa had suspected all those years ago, back when they first met, when she first put him through the ringer in an attempt to diagnose _something_ that could be fixed. When she first sought to treat him, heal him, help him in whatever way she could. But, of course, she – like the rest of the world – never had anything that came close to the tools needed to see what Hydra had done, let alone to repair it.

Bucky had resisted at first, had been afraid that this high-tech healing, this re-wiring of his brain might make him _different_. Would he lose pieces of who he had become over the past several years, since fleeing Hydra and joining the Avengers? Since meeting Tessa? Would he feel differently about their time together? Would he no longer be the man that she knew? The man that she loved?

Shuri had assured him that he would be the same man, just… better. “If I mended your broken leg, would you ask me these same things?” she’d inquired, a rather smug brow raised. “Would you ask if the leg would no longer be your own once healed?”

He had ducked his head solemnly at that and answered honestly. “If I’d only ever walked on it while it was broken, if that was all I knew… yeah, probably.”

But he let her do her thing all the same, swayed in no small part by the expectant look on his wife’s face – her sheer visage of hope – as Shuri showed off his scans and explained how the procedures would go. And in just a week’s time, he found himself feeling… rested. Restored and invigorated in a way he hadn’t felt in so damn long. It was like taking a long, hot shower after a particularly rough mission and stepping out of the steaming bathroom with skin scrubbed pink and fresh and new. Shuri loofa-ed his brain, and he had never felt… cleaner.

But it wasn’t just the _brain defrag_ – as Tessa and Shuri had taken to calling it – that made him feel like a new man.

The day after they began his treatment, Shuri suggested – not for the first nor fiftieth time – that he let her build him a new arm. He had scoffed and brushed her off – not for the first nor fiftieth time. But then he caught a glimpse of her face, concern tugging at her soft and youthful features, forcing her lips into a pained sort of frown. “Wouldn’t you like to be rid of the thing that most ties you to _them_?” she asked, her voice dipping into a deep and perceptive tenor. “How do you expect to be free from this _Hydra_ if you continue to carry them on your body like this?”

Point made. He couldn’t very well argue with her logic. And so he agreed – finally, as she had been hinting at the project since they first arrived in Wakanda – to let the genius princess build him a new arm. And damn if she didn’t do one hell of a job.

The new appendage was fitted to him perfectly. No more tugging and pulling and aching at the joint… a constant discomfort that had simply become par for the course over the years – decades – with the Winter Soldier’s arm. This prosthetic was lighter weight, easier to carry, to wield, to balance. The new shift in bulk _immediately_ threw off his center of gravity and set him to stumble in an oddly unsteady lean for several days. But once he got used to it, God, was it more comfortable.

The new arm was better built too, more durable and flexible. The dozens of articulating plates from the Hydra model – which often slid out of place or got stuck in awkward positions – were replaced with tiny vibranium fibers that all worked together to mimic actual muscle and sinew. He could make a fist without internal gears whirring. He could use the arm naturally without having to stop and _wind_ it, knocking the outdated, terribly abused prosthetic back into place at the shoulder or the elbow. He no longer had to manually pop his bionic knuckles and awkwardly flick his wrist to-and-fro as he’d taken to doing when the old, worn plates froze up.

And control. For the first time in seventy years, he was able to _control_ his left arm and make it do just what he wanted. He could gauge the strength and speed of the bionic hand, could adjust it to either squeeze and break and destroy or to offer a gentle, subtle touch. This seemingly simple thing, which had always taken so much focus and energy and painstaking effort for him to achieve, he could now do with ease.

The new _contraption_ contained thousands of highly sophisticated sensors tied directly to his neural pathways. This is what allowed him to modify his grip and to move more fluidly, naturally. But the most remarkable – _miraculous_ – thing that the sensors allowed was the generation of actual _feeling_.

No more vague temperature sensors that signaled little more than hot or cold. Those had been dramatically upgraded, the sensitivity ratcheted up to beyond what even the sensitive skin of his flesh hand could discern. And other touch, other feeling… “It’s like… it’s like I _know_ what I’m touching. Without seeing it, I mean. It hasn’t… I haven’t had that… in this hand… I don’t even think I remember…” he had stuttered out that first night _wearing_ the arm, face a wonderous mask as he walked about their small house and simply _touched_ everything he could. Touched all the _things_ before settling his hand – splaying his fingers, pressing his palm – to Tessa’s flesh.

When they made love later that night, he spent far too much time trailing soft, tender touches over her skin, mapping every inch of her body with his new fingers, feeling every part of her for the first, wonderous time. He was positively in awe of how she felt, whether sweating beneath his palm as he pressed her into him like he had done that night… and the next morning. Or brushing lightly up against his shoulder while passing him in a doorway. Or laying heavily atop his arm, asleep in bed.

Even after two weeks with the vibranium appendage, he still finds himself amazed by what it offers. The sensation of hot water beating down on his arm in the shower. The tickle of Tessa’s thick waves slipping easily between his fingers, no more worries of metal plates catching and tugging hair from her scalp. The feel of his wife’s cool skin beneath his fingertips as they lie coiled together in bed… here in the quiet, peaceful dark.

Her soft, tired voice cuts though the silent night, pulling him easily from his serene, reflective reverie. “Not gonna sleep?” she asks simply, knowing from the precise rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers lightly, continually caress her skin, that he’s still very much awake.

His lips part with a soft pop, chin bobbing just above the crown of her head as she lays pressed against him. “Just… taking it all in,” he muses casually, voice barely above a whisper, as he gently strokes the black, vibranium thumb up and down the length of her arm. “Still.”

She moves a bit closer, the recent shift in season causing a familiar chill to spread through the night, one that hadn’t hit them in months. A soft, “Hmm,” slips from her lips as she curls further into his warm chest.

Bucky continues the tender, almost timid action, looking down to watch – his enhanced eyes slicing easily through the dark – as this still foreign looking thumb traces along his wife’s pale flesh.

She lets out another soft hum next to him and he pauses his grip at her shoulder for a moment before moving to trail a soothing touch down the length of her spine, sneaking beneath her T-shirt when he reaches the bottom before stealing back up again. “It’s nice that they’re warm,” she murmurs into him. “I still need the cold too, but right now, this is nice.”

The smallest chuckle resonates in his chest as he recalls Tessa telling Shuri in no uncertain terms that she simply cannot _live_ without his cold, metal touch. That she simply _needs_ it and Shuri can build the arm however she wants, with as many snazzy little features as she likes, but there damn well better be a way for it to press that calming, allaying, cool, _cold_ touch into her skin.

Most of the time, the arm mimics his body temperature. But you better believe she built in a setting so he can adjust it however he – or Tessa – likes.

“Can’t say I miss the feeling of ice-cold metal on my ass when I pull up my underwear,” he jokes, crooked smile blooming.

She huffs out a tiny laugh and wraps her arms around his torso, burrowing a bit lower as she does so to work her way deeper into the covers. “Fair enough.”

Silence fills the room once again, the sounds of Tessa’s easy breaths steadying filling his ears as his left hand comes to rest atop her ribs, the strong beat of her heart pulsing into his fingertips. “I can feel you,” he whispers, the words sliding delicately off his tongue.

“What?” she asks, soft voice laden with near sleep.

He shakes his head a bit, a twinge of regret thrumming through him for pulling her from slumber. “Nothing,” he offers, feeling her stiffen in his arms.

“No,” she mumbles, still curled to his side, but pulled farther from sleep by his evasive response. “What?”

“I just love that…” he trails off, the words being punctuated by a long, wistful sigh. “If you’d asked me to tell the difference between your hand and… I don’t know, Sam’s… I wouldn’t have been able to do it. I like knowing what I’m touching with this thing. That’s all.”

“Hm,” she mutters. “Sam does have surprisingly soft and supple hands.”

He releases a quick snort of a laugh. “Let’s not use the word _supple_ to describe Sam ever again.”

Her head pops up suddenly, eyes seeming to shine even in the pitch dark. “Did you ever used to jerk off with your left and fool yourself into thinking it was someone else touching you?” she asks with a crooked grin and a stifled chuckle.

He scoffs loudly. “Doll, those fingers have ripped men apart. You’re nuts if you think I’d ever wrap them around my own dick.”

A single brow cocks high for just a moment before she lets out a quick huff and drops back down to snuggle into his chest. “Well, I think you might’ve missed out,” she mutters into him. “I, for one, was always a fan of those dangerous metal digits.”

His left hand drifts from her ribs down to her hip. Oddly warm fingers – slightly rough, but not at all _hard_ like one might think – slip lightly down her thigh, giving a bit of a grip and a tug to get her to shift and open up to him. “Well, I think you’re gonna be an even bigger fan of these _dangerous digits_ ,” he breathes out, a slightly mocking tenor to his voice as he presses beneath her panties and grazes his thumb over her naked flesh. “Maybe you just need to break them in a little more.”

They lay in bed that night – drenched in sweat and the brilliant afterglow of their lovemaking, all thoughts of _sleep_ gone from their minds – and they make plans to head to the market the next day, to get some things to fill in the just-tilled gardens built around the house. They talk about what they might want to do with the fields further out, what can be planted, what might successfully grow. Bucky laughs at her newfound knowledge and zeal for agriculture. Tessa mocks him for his devotion to the two goats they just brought home last week… and his desire to get more, to build them a stable. They laugh about this new, strange life they somehow tumbled into. And they reflect on the fact that they may actually be happy here. That this odd little life in this quiet and peaceful place might actually be just what they need… just what they’ve needed all along.


	21. The Thaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I just updated yesterday, but I’ve been super excited about this chapter for a while now and just NEEDED to get it out. So... I hope you enjoy!

_New York, after:_

It’s quiet, calm. So unlike the clinic, especially today. Today, despite being just as empty as ever – as empty as the rest of the world – that place was _loud_. The terror and grief and regret that tore through her first few hours at work were enough to send Tessa stumbling back to her office for a respite that never quite came. The agonizing cries and putrid energy of decay – of a soul’s death – thrummed wildly in her ears and through her veins until well after her shift had ended.

Even now, here, where it’s quiet and calm and otherwise _perfect_ – nothing but the gentle pull and soft suckles of her baby at her breast – even now, she feels the echoes of that desperate energy lingering in her periphery.

She looks down at the half-awake baby in her arms, taking note – despite the darkness of the room, the only light being cast by a dim, orange lamp in the corner and the stream spilling in from the hall – of the way her long lashes bounce against her cheeks, her eyes loosely shut as she lazily drinks. Tessa reaches up and runs the very edge of her thumb down the length of Ava’s face, from the thick curls at her hairline down to the perfect dimple in her chin. And she opens herself up, feels a soft breath leave her too-tight chest as her daughter’s splendid and serene – and achingly familiar – energy fills her up.

But it’s not just Ava that she feels blow through her, soothing her senses – her _soul_ – as she slowly rocks in the wooden glider. A subtle hit of relief, an odd note of… awe tumbles through the nursery just as a bit of light from the hall disappears, blocked by a set of broad shoulders. She leans back her head, eyes blinking softly shut, and she asks, “You just gonna stand there and stare?”

Steve lets out a low chuckle and shifts a bit nervously, his toe absently digging into the hardwood as he leans in the doorway, hands casually shoved into his jeans pockets. “Didn’t hear you come home,” he mutters, ducking his head for little more than a breath of a moment before continuing to gaze at the peaceful picture before him.

Without looking up, Tessa releases a small snort of a laugh. “You know,” she starts, tone soft but teasing, “If you would’ve told me years ago that Steve Rogers would be able to watch a woman breastfeed without turning into a cherry-red ball of nerves, I’d have laughed in your face.”

His brow twists, corner of his mouth pulling into a slight smirk. “You _did_ just laugh.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, pulling herself upright and turning tired eyes on him. “I guess I did.”

He shrugs and glides into the room, stepping over to the changing table to close the lid on a case of wipes – because she never seems to remember to do that – and grab a felled onesie draped over the corner. “It’d be pretty bad if I wasn’t used to it by now anyway, right?” he intones, folding the little mint green outfit up and tucking it into a drawer. “It’s been a year.”

“Noooo,” comes out of her in a bleating, pained whine, her face scrunching in something akin to despair, peppered only slightly with a soft, wistful joy. “Don’t remind me.” She gazes down again at the baby at her breast, her warm, heavy body weighting her arm in a way it never used to. She gets bigger everyday. Her chubby cheeks seem to slim, porcelain skin – she can’t help but think as her thumb drifts once more over the sleepy little face – feeling so much less… fragile than it had all those months ago. A _year_ ago. “I know I need to stop,” she mumbles to herself. These _midnight snacks_ , as they’d taken to calling them, are the only remaining nursing she does now, and she knows the truth… “She doesn’t need it anymore.”

Steve twists and stares, his hip pressed to the hard edge of the changing table. “Doesn’t mean _you_ don’t need it… maybe just for a little while longer.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? This ritual – coming home from work to find Ava already tucked into her crib, waiting for her to stir just enough to call it waking, pulling her to her bosom before the baby’s brilliant blue eyes even blink fully open – it’s all for Tessa. Rocking this precious, innocent soul – her energy so pure and unfettered and content – it’s something she _needs_ after being out in the real world. Nursing her, having Ava pull just a bit from her body – as she tugs at the tiny tendrils of her sweet essence – it grounds her, reminds her that she’s still here. Reminds her _why_ she’s still here.

But… “I said I’d stop when she turns one,” she sighs out, pulling the now sleeping babe from her breast and tugging her shirt back in place.

Steve steps swiftly over – just one long stride – and lifts Ava gently from her arms, giving a little bounce and coo as he turns towards the crib. “Just two more days, then,” he whispers with a lilt.

“Yeah,” she murmurs listlessly behind him as he lays the baby down in bed, grabs the worn and slobberfied stuffed bunny from the corner of the crib and tucks it by her side.

He places a wide, open palm atop Ava’s chest, feels her tiny heart thrum into it as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Such a big girl,” he declares with a small, soft chuckle. But when he hears no wistful agreement – nor grumbled complaint – coming from Tessa, he turns with a worried scowl. “Rough day?” he asks simply, taking in her slumped posture, shirt still half undone as she slouches in the rocking chair, frowning thickly at the sleeping baby in the crib.

She looks up in surprise, as though she’d forgotten he’d been standing there, just a foot from her side. Then she shrugs and shakes her head. “Couple more suicides,” she mutters, voice devoid of emotion. “Holidays are hard. Harder now.”

He nods slowly, deep blue eyes remaining trained on her while also catching a quick glimpse of the peaceful baby in his periphery. His ears perk to the sounds of her soft snores, super hearing allowing him to unconsciously count the beats of her heart, a thing he’d been doing for nearly a year now, a simple, secretive action that’s soothed him when he too thinks he might not be able to make it through another day. “Yeah,” he agrees lamely. “They are.”

It was easy to avoid last Christmas and New Years. Ava was new and all-consuming, and the holidays – the first since the Snap – came and went, slipping through time with little more than an absent _huh_ of acknowledgment from any of them. But this year would be different. This year, they _had_ to celebrate – whatever that word even meant in this new world – because Ava deserved it. And, really, so did the rest of them.

And yet the talks had been mostly about how to downplay everything.

 _No to Pepper’s party. I just… can’t. A small tree, sure. But that’s it. If I catch so much as a whiff of gingerbread, I’m gonna bust some skulls_. That last one was a shared threat, Tessa and Natasha both having flashes of Lila Barton – still small and sweet – showing off her gingerbread house – _Which_ I _helped build, by the way_ – at Christmas those few years ago.

And then there’s the way Tessa and Bucky’s apartment smelled – cinnamon and cloves and ginger spice filling every room for days – when she _finally_ returned home after her captivity. Returned home to find Sam wearing a festive apron and that contagious smile as he rolled out gingerbread men and woman in her kitchen, and baked each one to perfection.

Yes, the holidays absolutely are… hard.

“Do you think…” Tessa starts, her gaze ticking dreamily away, trailing along the dark nursery walls. “Do you think that you could ever… do it?”

His brows twist together in confusion, head cocking curiously to the side. “Do what?”

Her eyes land back on him, glistening green popping through the dimly lit room. “Suicide.”

He almost snorts, a short burst of incredulous laughter. Almost. But it’s not that crazy a question, is it? In this _new_ world? Since beginning the support group for survivors all those months ago, he’d seen his fair share of suicides. But… no, that word felt wrong now. It’s not the same as it once was. Before the Snap, suicide felt like a dirty word. To _him_ … to the man who blithely flew a plane into the Artic and sacrificed himself amid a whirlwind of grief. To him, it felt like an awful choice. A _wrong_ choice. Despite the fact that he had once made it himself.

But it doesn’t even feel like a choice anymore. The men and women who’ve slipped away, slid through his fingers as they sauntered out the community center doors, never to return… it didn’t feel like any of them were making a _choice_ to die. They were simply tired. And worn. And it seemed that one day, they each let their eyes slip shut – for just a moment, perhaps, just a single moment of rest – only to find they no longer had the strength to open them again.

“No,” he says after a long, silent moment, his tone certain, unyielding. He shakes his head fervidly, blond hair shimmering in the orange light cast by the dim lamp in the corner. “I couldn’t. I can’t. Won’t.”

She nods slowly, pulling a long, lingering breath in through her nose as her lips pinch into a firm line. Her gaze falls to the baby at his side, her tiny chest rising and falling in a soft, steady rhythm. “I remember what it was like,” she says then, the words oozing from her like thick flowing syrup. “When I did it.”

“When you were with the X-Men?” he asks, despite knowing the answer, knowing the story entirely.

“I just needed it to stop,” she mutters, and for a moment Steve isn’t even sure if she’s talking to him or only to herself. “There was so _much_. In my head. It was like… like I couldn’t even _breathe_. And… and…” Her eyes blink swiftly shut, head rocking to-and-fro. “The Professor knew,” she says breathlessly, an image of the man she once loved as a father flickering to life in the corner of her mind, the ongoing, unanswered question – is he alive, do any of them remain? – echoing all around her. “He knew that I… _chose_ that.” She shakes her head free of the clamoring, swallows down the sudden pain and regret, and looks up at Steve with just plain exhausted eyes. “I don’t think James ever let himself believe that. He never really wanted to talk about it. Which was fine,” she offers with a shrug. “I never wanted to either. But I got the feeling that he always just thought… it was a rough time. And I was young. And… I don’t know… _troubled_. And I just… didn’t know any better. Or didn’t mean it. But I meant it.”

He pulls in a long breath, issues it out in a languid sigh as his brows rise deliberately. “He knew,” he says, tone decisive, sincere. “After everything that happened with Cal… the depression that you _never_ admitted to having,” he smirks. “He was scared to death that it was gonna lead you down that same path. He knew what you chose when you were a kid.”

“Hm,” she hums out vaguely, eyes ticking off into a distant, hazy stare.

“Would you do it now?” he asks, the words tumbling in a haphazard rush before he can think to stop them. “ _Could_ you?”

She shrugs. “There was a woman today… she lost her husband and two of her children in the Snap. Her other son came in with her, with the ambulance. He found her. Gunshot wound to the head.” She purses her lips, face tightening into an emotionless mask. “Should’ve heard the way he screamed. Cried. He couldn’t have been more than… fifteen, sixteen.” Another shrug. Another sigh. “I don’t know. I can say that right here, right now, I feel like holding on. But sometimes… I don’t know.”

A grunt of sorts blows out of him, the blasé sound causing her to glance up, questioning look on her face. “Well, _I_ know,” he says, corner of his mouth ticking up just the slightest bit. “I know that you’re too damn stubborn to ever _let go_ of anything. Besides…” He steps over to her and extends a hand, hauls her up out of the chair in a single, effortless move. He remains planted in front of her, towering over her as he goes on to say, voice low and suddenly somber, “You know… Ava, she’s not the only one who needs you.”

She says nothing in response, merely ducks her head, a potent whiff of _Steve_ – an almost spicy, woodsy smell that’s so characteristically him – hitting her senses as she pulls in a breath so near his broad chest.

“C’mon,” he says after a moment, reaching up to pat her on the back. “Nat was over earlier and we ordered takeout.” He pulls away, makes for the door, turning before walking through it to glance back at her. “Go take a shower and I’ll warm you up a plate.”

She gives him a short nod, noticing when she does so that her shirt’s still undone – and catching also the quick tick of his eyes as he awkwardly looks away once seeing it himself. He tosses her another grin, as she pulls her top closed with a slight and uncharacteristic blush, and he heads for the kitchen, leaving her to kiss Ava goodnight.

She lingers for a moment above the crib, her eyes tracing the baby’s face, taking her in completely, even in the dark. _She is you_ , reverberates through her mind, Bucky’s voice hazy and ethereal, fading from the time spent without the very real echoes in her ear.

The sting of that realization, that he’s _fading_ with each passing day, brings a sudden swell of tears to her eyes. She shakes her head adamantly, blinks and blinks until salty tracks begin to dry on her cheeks and her baby girl’s face is once again clear before her. _My baby girl_.

“She’s _you_ ,” she murmurs then – _corrects_ – barely a whisper, hardly even a breath.

000

She hadn’t even realized just how cold she was until the hot spray of the shower began drenching her. Fiery beads pounding her skin. Streams saturating her hair and very nearly burning her scalp. Steaming fog painting the glass door, encasing her in a hazy heat. And yet… her hands still tremble.

She had forgotten, while holding Ava, nursing her, loving her, clinging to her energy. She had forgotten that her hands had been doing that _thing_ all day. Shaking and trembling and going numb from the chill. It’s December, yes. Cold as ever in the city. But this cold is different. This cold is _deep_.

It’s the chill she felt after drowning. And coming back… knowing that she somehow didn’t belong. It’s the numbness that pricked at her fingers as her internal wall began to crumble… revealing to her just how lost she truly was, how broken. It’s the shaky quality that kept her from running anything in the lab for those first few months after the Snap, one of the things that thrusted her into a rotation of general medicine at the clinic. Her hands unable to grasp at the physical just as her mind could never quite grasp this new reality.

She pulls in a deep breath, sucking in the steam in the hopes that it might warm her from within. But while – she knows – her hands will eventually still, eventually thaw, if only a bit, that deep, bitter cold that’s taken up residence inside of her for so damn long now… that’s not going anywhere. Hot baths, steamy showers, piles of blankets in the big, empty bed. _Nothing_ makes that cold melt away.

Nothing.

000

“You’ve got moo shu pork and veggie lo mein,” Steve declares, tossing a glance over his shoulder as she enters the kitchen. He’d made her a plate – heaped it high with far more food than she’ll ever eat, but felt he had to all the same, knowing she likely ate nothing at work all day – and warmed it up before setting everything out on the table behind him. He reaches into the fridge and pulls out two beers, spins around to take a seat at the table, keep her company while she eats, only to be driven back in surprise as he finds her standing mere inches from him. He lets out a low laugh, holds up the beers. “Did you want something else?”

She shakes her head, tiny droplets falling from her wet hair, dribbling down her T-shirt and dripping onto the floor. Her eyes are red rimmed, skin peppered with a bright cherry flush, lips parted as though preparing to speak. But no words come out.

He leans to the side to deposit the bottles onto the counter, turns back to her with an anxious scowl. “You okay?” he asks, the worry line between his eyes deepening as he reaches out and takes a loose hold of her biceps. Immediately, her skin breaks out in goosebumps. He feels them pop beneath his palms, his calloused fingertips idly working to smooth them out, hands beginning a methodical trail up and down the length of her arms. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, concern deepening his tone.

“Cold,” she mutters vaguely, looking down at his right hand. Then his left. _Both flesh_ , she thinks hazily. _Both so warm_.

“You want me to grab you a sweater?” he offers, the proposal sincere despite him knowing that this is more than just a chill.

She shakes her head again, a short snuffle – or is it a choked-back sob? – falls from her open mouth. And his fingers tighten at her shoulders. Without thinking, she shuffles closer, pulled in by his warmth. Was he always this warm? His body temperature ran high, a side effect of the serum… this she knew. But had she really never noticed it herself before? Had she really never _felt_ it?

She slips further into the small space between, leans into his chest, wraps shaky arms around his blissfully warm middle. “Cold,” she repeats. And yes, this time it’s clear, this time it’s a tightly held sob that leaks around the seams of the word.

He winds his strong arms around her, tugging her close, squeezing her in such an… unfamiliar way. Because Bucky so often was achingly careful with his embraces. As though he was too afraid that his bionic arm would hurt her, crush her, never understanding that sometimes all she needed was to be crushed and pressed against him until every inhale he took forced the very breath from her lungs.

She lays her head near his shoulder, tucks in so that her nose presses to his collar bone. That smell. Spice and wood – oak and cedar – rain. Steve.

Her wet hair soaks his shirt at the front, the back getting tugged and crumpled as her fingers wind into the fabric, desperate for purchase, clamoring for warmth. He pulls her closer still, tightens his arms, pinning her to him. No escape.

“He was always so warm,” she mutters into his chest, the words barely discernable.

He hears her. But he says nothing, instead bowing his head to curl tighter around her, folding himself about her. His breath is hot on her neck, her ear, and she shifts into it, the smallest whimper falling from her lips as she tucks herself closer still.

His lips. She feels them brush along the shell of her ear, hears the slight pop as they break apart near her lobe.

Another whimper, neither strained nor pained… desperate.

His lips drop just a bit, smooth cheek sliding across her jawline. They rise and graze against her chin, press into the corner of her jaw. Not a kiss. No. Just… pressure. They move against her, sharp muscles contracting the soft flesh, pinching and parting as though trying to speak. But no words come, only hot, humid breaths tumble from him. And into her. They seep through her skin, just as the warmth from his core – from his solid chest, pressed so tightly to hers – trickles slowly into her center… warming, melting, thawing her insides.

The hot breaths stop, catch in his chest as he pivots up more, slides his lips up from her chin to the corner of her mouth. Presses them in, skims them along, finds her soft, supple lips parted as well. And he slips inside.

She tastes of salty tears and pure exhaustion.

He tastes of need and promises and white-hot _heat_.

It’s barely even a kiss at first, just a slight mingling of lips, a pressure, a taste. But when a stilted breath shoots from her chest, up and out of her mouth in a low moan, Steve breaks. He pulls it all in – the breath, the moan, the agony and the fatigue. He sucks it in and spills out his own – need and want, and a low keen that that shoots chills up her spine. Their lips tangle and thrash, tugging, nipping, suckling… _tasting_ one another, discovering this person so well known – for each of them – already so loved and familiar, yet in this moment new and utterly unrecognizable.

Tessa’s fingers release their grip on his shirt, palms flattening along the muscular planes of his back, taking in the tightening and twitching and flexing with an air of curiosity. Because she always knew he was strong. But, God, how she _feels_ it now.

Steve holds her close, tight and desperate, one hand gripping at her ribs, feeling the wild beating of her heart in his fingertips. The other slipping down… down her back, trailing to her hip, falling a bit further still to roll beneath, cup her ass, and feel the perfect fit of _her_ in his palm.

And then… it stops.

Just as languorously as it all began, the two slowly, languidly pull apart, swollen lips bobbing at air, hooded eyes blinking heavily away to look anywhere but at the person ahead. He releases his arms, letting them merely drape about her, no more grabbing, gripping, cupping. Her hands fall from his back, fingers grazing along in a ghostly touch all the way down before swinging helplessly to her sides.

She takes a single, wide step back and pivots toward the table, falls heavily into the seat before dropping her head into her hands. He pulls in a long, deep breath, reaches around her to grab her plate, shoves it into the microwave to reheat it all again.

A sweater is draped over her shoulders, the sudden scratch of wool and thrill of caring comfort sending a wave of nausea through her. She ignores it… ignores the kind gesture and the soft footsteps as he continues to pad about. She ignores the beer, set on the table by her elbow, the top popped and tossed casually into the trash along with his own. It isn’t until the microwave beeps and he slides the newly warm plate of food in front of her that she finally looks up, weary eyes catching sight of Steve as he nonchalantly takes a pull of his drink, pressing his red, worn lips around the mouth of the delightfully cold bottle as he slowly lowers himself into the chair beside her.

She lets out a single, tightly held breath, allows her shoulders to droop and relax, and reaches out for a fork. She grabs it easily, the tremor in her hand gone entirely, and after the slightest moment of hesitation, she gives into the hunger and begins to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh...


	22. An Oath

_London, England, 1944 (long before):_

It had been weeks since they’d had four walls surrounding them, only bombed-out remnants pocking the way from Nantes up to Paris affording them any real shelter on their most recent campaign. The nights had been chilled, left a lingering, icy soreness in their bones that lasted well into the steadily warming hours of the oddly bright and sunny mornings. Odd because of their beauty, their warmth that – eventually – took hold of each of the men as they continued their trudge through the French countryside, through the beginnings of spring, through yet another month of unabating war.

Returning to London after – after weeks of exhaustedly tripping into one another, whispering veiled threats and curses into the wind as yet another fruitless endeavor to find Hydra cells heaped more bitter frustrations and resentments than any of them could bear – came as a bit of a shock to the system. Rations were in place, sure, but they’d still been given more food than they seemed to know what to do with. Hot water, soap, _time_ for a _real_ bath. Clean clothes in place of sweat-stained shirts and uniform pants itchy from the dirt amid the wool. A shave, a _real_ shave, with a sharp, easy-to-handle blade and a sink instead of a helmet.

Four damn walls. It was a shock, for sure. But it was a most welcome shock.

Bucky took that first evening back for himself, soaking in the tub until the water turned gray with his filth and too cold to bear. Then he laid out on the pure white sheets of the bed – his own bed, if only for the night, the SSR kindly welcoming them back with rooms at a local inn – and feigned sleep until exhaustion finally overtook him.

“Missed you at the pub,” Dugan tells him the next morning as the man’s heavy arm falls across his shoulders. “Thought for sure you’d be eager to chat up some dames after tooling around with a bunch a fellas for almost a month.”

“Dames can wait,” Bucky murmurs as he follows Steve – always following Steve, it seems – into the SSR offices. “I got more sleep than I’ve had since zonking out on my ma’s sofa after a long shift and Sunday dinner. _God_ ,” he breathes out wistfully, stopping short just as they enter the makeshift mess hall. “I miss Sunday dinners.”

Dugan lets out a hearty laugh and slams a firm, open palm into his back, almost knocking him off balance. “Don’t we all,” he muses before stepping away and eagerly accepting a proffered cup of Joe from a seemingly sweet little blonde thing.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the woman begins as she steps over to him next, holding a tray of mugs filled to the brim, sloshing over with thick, steaming coffee. He gives a small nod and a crooked smile, resists the urge to emit a flirty wink – this woman is an SSR agent after all, don’t be fooled by the big, doe eyes and perfectly painted red lips – and politely takes a mug. “I have something else for you,” she states just as he’s about to turn away.

His brow furrows. “Cream and sugar?” he asks, mostly joking because _damn the rationing_ , but maybe hoping just the same.

She grins at him, sly and sensual, and he’s reminded of how he got into so much trouble a few months back, getting caught with a different blonde agent in a supply closet after she flashed an all too similar look his way. Hardly his fault, he thinks with a deflating sigh. “Letters,” the woman in front of him says with a lilt as she balances the tray with one hand and pulls a small parcel from her uniformed jacket with the other. “A few came in while you were gone.” She hands them over and gives him a quick wink, the small gesture alone igniting a flame in his gut. “Seems you have quite the eager gal back home.”

His lips quirk up into a careless, crooked smile as he holds her gaze just long enough to take a sip of coffee and accept his mail, allowing his fingertips to linger atop hers as he does so. “What makes you think I have just the _one_ gal?”

The soft, flirty expression falls from her face, shifting into something akin to boredom as she lets out a quick breathy laugh and a brief warning that, “You’re all expected at the debrief by 0900 hours,” before she turns to hand off the remaining cups of coffee.

He drops a heavy sigh and pulls out a chair beside Steve at the long wooden table, gives his friend a short nod as he collapses into it. “Rough night?” the blond asks with a chortle.

Bucky shoots him a glare – “Slept for once.” – and lets the look travel over the others at the table, Gabe, Falsworth, Dernier… and Dugan finally joining at the far end, a giant chunk of bread in his hand.

“Yeah, the rest of us too,” Dum-Dum chimes, mouth full. “Lot easier without all you heathens there snoring away.”

“I don’t snore,” he protests weakly, leaning back and taking in some more coffee, letting the scalding liquid bite at his tongue. His brow furrows as he glances round again. “Where’s Morita?”

“That’s the question of the day,” Steve mutters, a hint of annoyance shining through. “Assuming he’s still in bed. Better make it to the debrief on time or he’ll have his ass handed to him.” His eyes drop down to the small bundle of letters on the table, the gentle, bubbly scrawl easily recognizable. “Becca?”

Bucky scoots forward and sets down his coffee before reaching for the package. “Looks like,” he says, tugging at the string to free the letters so he can thumb through them. His forehead crinkles, eyes narrowing assessingly. “Becca and ma,” he mutters, his gaze tracing along the familiar cursive on the envelopes. He pulls the one with the oldest postmark and gently – almost reverently – slides his finger along the crease to open the envelope, then pulls out the thin papers, each absolutely _filled_ with his sister’s looping words, packed tightly into nearly nonexistent margins.

He glances up at the clock, notes that they have nearly two hours before the debrief, and settles in to read all about _home_. But he makes it only to the end of the first page before shooting upright in his seat with a pained sort of grunt and a look of pure disgust washing over his face.

Steve turns a set of curious eyes on him as he continues to sip at his coffee. “Something wrong?”

Bucky ignores him for a beat, stern gaze plastered to the words in front of him as he moves on to the next page, skims and scans and reads over it all as fast as his still mission-addled brain will allow. “No,” he breathes out near the end, barely a whisper. “No.”

Steve’s heart leaps into his throat as he watches his friend grab for the next letter. “What?” he bites out, his mug landing with a thud as he harshly sets it down, droplets of hot coffee bouncing out. “What’s the matter?”

Bucky’s eyes go from wide and wild – horrified – to fuming slits as he reads over the letter from his mother. “Danny Sayles,” he metes out finally, the only barely familiar name pulling out from between tightly clenched teeth.

Steve’s face twists in confusion. “Danny,” he repeats vaguely. “The kid who used to cheat at stickball? The one who told Becca she couldn’t play anymore after she scored that homer?” He asks the questions as the image of the boy solidifies in his mind. An obnoxious little kid from Becca’s grade. A towheaded boy with an endlessly smug smirk and a foul mouth that he’d shot off at Steve himself more than a time or two. A kid who, though he remembers him as a mere annoying child, is surely much closer to being a full-grown man now. “He get drafted?” he asks, the only thing he can think that would constitute news regarding Danny Sayles.

Bucky shakes his head _no_ , his jaw tightening and ticking to the side as he quickly scans through the rest of his mother’s letter, taking note of other – unrelated to this current, _serious_ issue – news that he’d like to go back and peruse later. “No,” he says, tone teetering on dangerous. “He’s… seeing my sister.”

“Uh oh,” Falsworth intones from his position at the corner of the table, face buried behind a newspaper despite his attention, obviously, being fully on the goings-on across from him. “Not your _favorite_ chap, then?”

“He’s a little shit,” he seethes pointedly, earning a round of stifled chuckles from nearly all the men at the table. “Fuck,” he mutters, dropping the letter and tugging his hands slowly through his hair.

Steve reaches out and collects the felled papers, his eyes bouncing hurriedly along the neatly written words. “Becca’s a smart kid,” he says as he continues to read, almost hearing her enthusiastic intonation echoing in his ears. _I know you always thought he was a punk, but I promise you, he’s changed. He’s a good man, Bucky. I promise._

“L'amour nous rend tous idiots,” Dernier croons with a rather smug smirk before returning to his steaming mug of coffee.

Gabe gives off a crooked grin of his own as he shakes his head. “He’s not wrong,” he says plainly. “Love does make fools of us all.”

Bucky reaches out and grabs the letters from Steve’s hand, ducks his head and trains an almost frantic stare on his friend. “Steve,” he starts, voice low and stern. “You gotta promise me… if something happens to me…”

“No,” he interrupts swiftly, halting hand raised high. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, and we’re not going to pretend like anything will.”

Dugan snorts out a short laugh, smarting under his breath, “Well, this just took a turn.”

“Steve,” he goes on, unfazed. “Somebody’s gotta watch out for her… for both of them.” He shifts back in his chair, arms flinging wildly into the air. “My ma’s saying he’s a good kid too! Little shit has them both fooled!”

“C’mon, Buck,” he tries while working to hold back the crooked smirk aching to shine through. “She’s eighteen. She’s just… having fun. It’s not like she’s marrying the kid.”

Bucky’s eyes blow wide at just the mention of marriage, his face contorting wildly as Gabe leans in and utters, “I was eighteen when I got married.”

“Holy hell!” Dugan barks out amid a hearty laugh. “Jones, you’re _married_?”

Falsworth carefully folds up his newspaper, shaking his head slowly all the while. “We really _must_ begin sharing more about ourselves. It seems we barely know each other at all.”

“Steve,” Bucky hisses out, swiftly tugging on his friend’s sleeve to regain his attention.

“Relax,” he tells him dismissively, turning back to the others just in time to hear Falsworth ask Gabe if he has any children.

“I do,” he replies with a nod and a beaming smile. “Little boy.”

“Unbelievable!” Dugan exclaims again. “It’s like you’re a total stranger!”

“I must say,” Falsworth continues blithely. “I cannot _imagine_ what it must be like to be here with a wife and a little one at home.”

“How old is he?” Steve asks, his right hand batting away a still persistently grasping Bucky.

“Almost two,” he replies, a solemn look overtaking his face. “He was born just before I shipped out. Guess I was lucky to meet him at all,” he finishes with a shrug. The room falls into a somber silence for a long breathless minute before he lets out a sigh and glances across the table at Falsworth. “Yeah,” he mutters simply. “Yeah, it’s hard. Being here… away from them.” His gaze drops down to the tabletop, head shifting in a languid shake to-and-fro. “He doesn’t know me at all. And… who knows how long all of this will go on? Everyday, he gets older, grows up a little more. And I’m not there to see it.” Another shrug, this one more defeated than the last, despite the soft smile that still lingers on his face. “Maybe I never will. Maybe I won’t go home. Maybe he never gets to know me at all.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve interjects, commanding edge to his voice. “We’re _all_ getting out of this war alive. We’re _all_ going home.”

“That an order, _sir_?” Dum-Dum asks with more than a hint of derision.

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, rolling his eyes. “A few months ago you had me sit in a damn tree for fourteen hours in twenty below – ”

“It wasn’t that cold,” he states with a huff.

“I couldn’t a shot anything even if there was something to shoot,” he fires back, incredulity painting his features. “My fingers were frozen.”

He lets out a harsh _psh_. “You were fine. And you’ll keep being fine.”

“Morita almost got his head blown off just last week after the assault outside of Paris,” Dugan points out, his tone oddly low and pensive. “Sorry to say, Cap, but you don’t know any better than the rest of us what this stinkin’ war has to offer.”

“Maybe not,” he capitulates, expression still stern and set. “But thinking the opposite isn’t gonna help anyone. So we’re not having _that_ talk. Not any of us.”

“Steve,” Bucky breathes out again, his voice slow and controlled and painfully sincere. “I just want to know that they’ll be okay. I _need_ to know that. And I tried to get you to agree to take care of them before I left, when you were still… little. And you refused to even talk about it then.”

“Really?” Gabe asks, his face pinched. “Your best friend asked you to take care of his family and you… _refused_?”

“No,” he bites out with a huff. “Of course I didn’t. I just said that we weren’t going to talk about the possibility of him not coming back because… because it was never really a _possibility_ at all.”

“That’s rather naïve, wouldn’t you say, Captain?” Falsworth questions coolly.

“It _kills_ me to think of my boy growing up without me, without his daddy,” Gabe pronounces, a gloomy edge to his words. “But at least I know he’ll have the rest of my family and my wife’s family… and my _wife_ to make sure he grows into a good, strong man.”

Bucky scoots his chair closer to Steve’s side, his voice coming out almost a whisper as he says, _pleads_ , “Just say you’ll do it, Stevie. I’ve got no one else. _They’ve_ got no one else. Just promise me that if something happens to me, you’ll take care of them. Of Becca and ma. Just… just say you’ll do it.”

His lips pinch tightly together, a single, stiff nod dropping after a long, uncomfortable moment of silence. “You know I will.”

“Is it just your mom and sister back home?” Dugan asks, his tone sounding a bit more jovial – a bit more _normal_ – than the last time he spoke. “You’re not _secretly_ married too, are ya, Barnes?”

Gabe snorts out a chuckle. “It wasn’t a _secret_. You just never asked.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth cocks up into a crooked smile, a smug smirk, as he releases a light laugh of his own. “No, I’m not married. Not even a sweetheart waiting for me.” He quirks his head, glances at Steve from the corner of his eye. “Good thing too. Can’t imagine what he’d do if I asked him to take of my girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asks, his visibly affronted demeanor pulling a round of chortles from everyone at the table. His shoulders relax just a bit, his voice as well when he states, “I’ve spent the better part of this last year surrounded by dames. Trust me, I know how to take care of ‘em.”

“Oh, ho!” Dugan laughs out, slapping his knee in glee. “Is that so, _Captain_?”

Bucky just shakes his head fondly, small snickers slowly fading. “I guess it really is a good thing I don’t have a girl, then,” he muses. “Wouldn’t you want you taking better care of her than me.” The smirk returns as he cocks his head and looks up at Steve from beneath still heavy, weary lids. “Gotta at least… preserve my memory.”

Steve shakes his head, breathes out the smallest, lightest chuckle. “Can’t believe we’re talking about this. Can we stop talking about this?”

Bucky’s tired gaze ticks off to a dark corner of the room, his tone shifting to a more serious, almost stern note. “Just… don’t let Becca marry that kid.” He slowly drags a heavy hand down the length of his face, breathing out as he goes, “ _God_. S’bad enough she’s old enough to even have a boyfriend. Just _promise me_ – if I’m not around to stop it – you won’t let her marry some joker like Danny Sayles.”

He nods his head, smallest grin pulling at his lips, his own wistful gaze lingering on the side of his friend’s forlorn face. “I promise.” Then, clearing his throat and popping him in the shoulder, throwing the man’s tired heft off balance even as he slouches in his chair, he asks, “What if something happens to _me_?”

“Psh,” Bucky scoffs. “Did you forget? You’re _Captain America_ ,” he utters with just enough petulance to make the teasing clear.

Steve shrugs. “Still human. And this is still war.”

“Oh, so the rest of us aren’t allowed to have this _discussion_ , but you can push it?” he asks, turning his head, raising weary – albeit now brightly shining – eyes up to lock onto his friend.

“I’m not letting anything happen to anyone under my command,” Steve issues out, a pledge, an oath, spilled with absolute conviction. “Just that simple.”

“Uh huh,” he mutters with a mocking nod. “And what _if_ something happens to the great Captain America? You want me to _take care_ of that pretty little agent of yours?” he asks, teasing voice filled with innuendo.

“Pretty sure she’d knock you on your ass for trying,” he counters with a raised brow.

“Good,” Bucky breathes out shortly, pulling himself upright, his back cracking as he shifts a bit side to side to stretch out. He lets out a small groan and gives Steve a positively shit-eating grin. “I’ve had enough on my plate taking care of your scrawny ass over the years. And your _dumb_ ass nowadays. When you go, I’ll be needing a damn break.”


	23. Christmas Joy

_New York, after:_

The migraine sets in just after noon, just after she gets Ava up and fed and changed, tugging a soft pink dress patterned with ribbon-wrapped candy canes onto her chubby little frame and laboriously fitting a wide, red headband around her dark curls. Steve laughs when he enters and sees the tiny, angry, scrunched-up face pinching in fury as tight little fists keep reaching up to tug at the utterly offensive, lacy band. He smiles and laughs and lets some of the heaviness sitting in his gut go.

But Tessa doesn’t.

“Just go without me,” she tells him, her voice low and weary. “Nat has a whole thing planned,” she reminds him, as though he’d forgotten that today was Christmas Eve and that a celebration awaited them up at the Compound.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, keeping his voice soft and quiet, seeing her wince at the sound all the same. “But she planned it for all of us… for _you_. We can reschedule.”

“You can’t reschedule Christmas,” she chides with a painful roll of the eyes. “Everybody’ll be there. Just… go.”

He wants to refuse again, to offer some sort of bargain that he’s sure she won’t take anyway. But he also really wants to go. As hard as it is to think about celebrating – even after well over a year has passed – he _wants_ to go visit and talk and laugh with his friends. He wants to eat too much chocolate and feel his fingertips go tacky from too many candy canes. He wants to listen to Christmas carols while driving upstate in the flurrying snow, singing along – loud and offkey – if only to amuse himself. He wants to watch Ava bounce and clap gleefully as the cats sweep in to investigate the moment he plops her down on the floor… in front of a brightly decorated tree. He wants to forget that he should be sad and grieving and hollow, and instead enjoy the holiday with his remaining loved ones.

And he wants Tessa to be there with him. He wants the friend he loves – the one he so desperately misses – to come along and leave behind all the sorrow she’s been bathing in. But there’s a part of him that’s actually a little relieved when she turns and heads for the darkened bedroom, turns and leaves him and Ava to go celebrate and smile – to laugh and have fun – without her. Because lately, it’s felt like smiles and laughter and fun – _joy_ – were not things that could survive in her solemn presence.

So they say goodbye to mama, flipping off the rest of the lights as they go – nothing but the colorful twinkling of the small tree in the corner left to reflect in the apartment – and they head out for the Compound without her.

Ava continues to fuss and tug at the confounded headband as they walk through the silent, mostly empty garage, causing Steve to finally relent with a sigh and free her from it as soon as he settles her into her car seat. He raises a very serious brow and tells her – her bright blue eyes homing in on him as though she completely comprehends – “You’re just going to have to put it back on when we get there. It’s a gift from Aunt Nattie, and she’ll be so disappointed if you don’t wear it.”

The drive upstate takes a bit longer than usual, Steve purposefully slowing as the light flurries that had been falling all day gradually turn into a steady snowfall. There’s more traffic than usual too… nothing compared to what it may have been just a few years ago, of course. But the sight of people – the relatively few that remain – out and about, going to see friends and family, _trying_ to find pleasure in the holiday season once again, well, it sets his heart to stutter and makes him want to slow to a crawl just so he might stretch the feeling and make it last.

And last it does, that familiar – yet achingly _distant_ – sense of peace and joy hangs like a cozy scarf about his neck as he pulls up to the Avengers Compound and gathers the antsy, babbling baby from the backseat. There’s something oddly comforting about the lowkey nature of this Christmas party, he realizes as he walks into the Compound, hearing just a few tinkling voices resound through the hall. Steve had never been one for the huge parties that Tony insisted on throwing every year. Sure, he usually ended up having fun there, but the small gatherings were always what he loved best. So there’s something about the fact that only a handful of them are in attendance today that makes this seem like the casual Christmases of yesteryear, wherein just those few without plans remained through the holidays as all the other teammates and staff travelled home to their families.

There’s no doubt that his heart aches for the ones missing this year. But the voices he does hear, as he totes Ava up to the common area, still manage to unleash a delightful warmth in his chest. Natasha, always here, still refusing all of Steve’s requests to leave this miserable and lonely place behind and come join them in the city. Rhodes, taking a break from policing the globe to spend Christmas with his sister – his only remaining relative, but _God_ does he feel lucky to still have her – jovially joining everyone in New York before heading off to her place. Pepper and Morgan, laughing delightedly despite being on their own this evening, Tony already turning down the invite to supposedly prep for their own small holiday gathering the next day.

Everyone makes a fuss the moment they enter, Natasha making grabby hands at a newly cross Ava – because that damn _thing_ is somehow on her head again – and Rhodey slapping a drink in Steve’s hand before he even has time to take off his coat. “Bruce opted out,” he tells him in a near whisper. “Too into whatever _experiment_ he’s got going on. Thought for a while there I was going to be the only guy in attendance.”

“And I’m sure that’d be so terrible for you,” Natasha – spy ears perked to the colonel’s low voice – remarks as she settles onto the floor with her favorite little wiggle monster in tow.

There’s a tree in the corner of the once full and lively common room. Bing Crosby sounds through the speakers and store-bought sugar cookies sit laid out on the counter. There are gifts – mostly for the babies – from everyone present. And from some who couldn’t make it, but wanted to send their love all the same. There’s a call from Wakanda, Okoye and Queen Ramonda watching and giggling and grinning madly from their side of the world as Ava and Morgan both toddle around their full-length images, grasping and swiping at women who stand stunningly before them, yet aren’t quite there at all.

It’s different this year, for sure. A bit sullen, a bit melancholy. But it’s still – somehow, miraculously – Christmas.

000

“So,” Natasha starts, the single word drawling out long and pointed as she glances over at Steve. The two of them are the only ones remaining now, Pepper and Morgan having just left with a solemn goodbye, and Rhodes having checked out to head to his sister’s about an hour earlier. She repositions Ava in her lap, giving a small huff as she shifts the slightly snoring girl so that she can more easily recline back into the arm of the sofa.

Steve hands over a full glass of wine and drops down to the couch beside her, releasing a rather weary and long-winded sigh before raising a curious brow her direction. “So?”

“A migraine?” she questions, incredulous expression tugging at her features. “You buy that?”

He shrugs. “I buy that she has one, yeah.”

“But did it come on because she…”

“Got herself all worked up about celebrating Christmas… without him? Yeah,” he breathes out slowly, his jaw tightening. “Probably.”

She sips at her wine for a moment, the only sound in the room Ava’s soft snufflings as she burrows into the crook of her elbow. “Should we be worried?”

Another shrug. Another sigh. He looks down at the sleeping baby and gives a tight smile, as relaxed as his face will go. “I wish she’d go back to the group,” he suggests finally, shaking his head. “I thought… I thought it was helping… was good for her…”

Natasha scoffs, short and nearly silent, more a disgruntled breath blown out above the lip of her glass. “Not everyone is as in to the whole sharing and caring group therapy _thing_ as you, Steve.”

“I was never really _into it_ , either,” he tells her with a relaxed air. “Not until I saw how much it helped people. Not until I saw how much _Sam_ helped people.” He slinks back into the couch, his shoulders dropping a bit as his eyes tick off to stare out the wall of windows, trailing over the mostly dark grounds, just barely illuminated by the cloud-cloaked half moon and stars. “I sat in on some of his group sessions over the years, watched how people interacted with him. How he… I don’t know… pulled things out of them. How _good_ they seemed to feel after. Like he was reaching in and just… unlocking something inside, letting them… spill out all the bad stuff.” He shakes his head again, an almost lost look tugging at his features as he runs a tired hand through his hair. “I’ve seen it help. I’ve seen it work.”

She nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Sam always had a way about him… a way of making people _comfortable_ , I guess.” She shows off a crooked, almost teasing grin. “Guess you must have that too, if they’re letting you head up your own group now.”

He lets out a sort of _psh_ , the sound barely making it out from between his fingers as that same exhausted hand trails down the length of his face. “I don’t know about that,” he mutters with a somewhat bashful smile. “Not exactly a lot of guys jumping at the chance to sit in a room full of miserable people and try and get them to talk.”

“Steve Rogers,” she croons with a shake of her head. “Never did meet a problem you couldn’t fix, huh?”

“I know I can’t fix every problem. I just… can’t help but try.”

She lets out a small laugh. “Even if they aren’t _your_ problems to fix.”

He turns a pointed stare her way. “If you’re about to tell me to stop trying to get you to move outta this place and come to the city with _us_ ,” he intones, eyes flicking down to the sleeping baby in her lap, “you might as well save your breath.”

“Leaving _this place_ isn’t going to _fix_ me, Steve. Anymore than going to some kind of group therapy is going to _fix_ Tessa.”

“Can’t hurt,” he replies with a shrug.

“Steve,” she starts, staring at him coolly. “Sometimes when things break, there’s just no putting them back together again. At least, not like they once were.”

He stares at her for a long moment, silence filling the room as his brow crinkles in thought. “I guess I’ve never really been good at… believing that,” he mutters finally, head dipping low. “Like with Bucky… I always pushed him to remember, to be, well _Bucky_. I always wanted him to be the guy he used to be. The guy I used to know.”

She nods gently. “And what he really needed was someone to know him and love him as the guy he _is_ … was.”

“As _James_ ,” he intones, brows rising high, corners of his lips perking as he softly utters, “Jamie.”

Again, Natasha nods. “None of us are ever going to be who we used to be.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, finally looking back up and locking onto her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t still be… okay.” He reaches out and lays an open palm on her knee, gives a soft tap and slight squeeze. “I really want you to be okay, Nat.”

A small, almost shy laugh burbles out of her as her gaze veers off towards nothing. “I am _okay_ , Steve. I’m… doing my thing here. Helping out how _I_ can.”

“Okay,” he capitulates, the word sounding utterly incredulous.

She looks back over at him. “So… should we be worried about Tessa?”

He laughs, a short, surprised chuckle. “Natasha Romanov,” he singsongs blithely. “Never did meet a problem you wouldn’t refuse to confront…”

A single auburn brow cocks high, a chide and a challenge all in one.

And Steve relents, letting out a long sigh and dropping back into the cushions behind him. “I don’t think she’s _okay_. Not right now. If that’s what you’re asking,” he says rather vaguely. Then, brows pinching together in thought, he utters, “The last few weeks have been rough.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums out, the command of _go on_ implicit in both her utterance and expression.

He rolls his eyes and lets loose a short chuckle before sinking further back into the sofa, a thoughtful, almost solemn look washing over his face. “The holidays, you know? And I think she’s got a lot going on at work. And Ava’s birthday…” He shakes his head to-and-fro, a soft sigh spilling out. “He should’ve been here for that,” he laments thickly, eyes dropping to the sleeping baby across from him. “He should be here now. He should be the one…” He stops short, lips pinching together for a tense, lingering moment before popping open once more to finish with a simple declaration that, “Some days it’s harder to accept than others.”

She nods stiffly, a mere, “Yeah,” being all she can conjure in response.

“I guess I just wish… I just wish she’d recognize that. You know? That some days are tough. But that doesn’t mean they _all_ have to be. She just… spirals and falls down into these deep, dark holes.” Another sigh, another glance off at nothing, and he mutters lowly, “I can’t… reach her down there. No one can.”

Natasha nods again, no words needed to show that she knows _exactly_ what he means. But, then again, who’s she to say that Tessa’s wrong for letting herself spin away from them? Who’s she to pass judgement on how – or _if_ – someone manages to move on from all of this? How can she possibly offer advice on helping a friend cope with living in this half-populated – half- _decimated_ – world when she can’t seem to do that on her own?

“It’s not that I don’t get it,” he goes on, voice dropping an octave, cheeks reddening as a rather ashamed sheen washes over his features. “I get it. And… I worry about her, sure. But…” He let lets out another despondent-sounding sigh and retrains his gaze on Natasha. “Honestly, Nat, it’s starting to make me a little crazy. I feel like a jerk saying that. But…” He trails off then, swallowing thickly as his eyes tick off to take in the snow-white grounds through the window behind her, the reflection of Christmas lights shimmering in the glass. “I just wish she could see – and enjoy – everything that she has. Everything that’s… right in front of her.”

000

When he arrives back at the Tower – sleeping baby in one hand, giant bag of gifted toys in the other – it’s to an eerily dark and quiet apartment. He sees her right away, though, in the light of the muted television, sitting cross legged on the floor, head flopped back on the couch cushion behind her, large glass bottle sitting eschew in her lap.

The sight alone sucks all of the buoyant, Christmas-fueled joy right out of his body.

“Tess,” he mutters, softly calling her name when she doesn’t so much as stir as they enter. He sets the bag down by the door – gently so as not to make a sound – and brings his now-free hand up to rub Ava’s back, hoping to keep her from waking as he approaches her mother and tries again, “Hey, we’re home.”

Without looking away from the TV – the black and white streets of Bedford Falls throwing flashes of light across her face – she releases a deep, thick sigh and says simply, “Yeah.”

He steps closer and glances down, notes the mostly empty bottle of, “Bourbon, huh?” She says nothing. He shifts Ava and smirks, shaking his head slowly. “Pretty sure the tradition is to have that with cocoa. And with other people. Not straight from the bottle, sitting alone in the dark.”

She shrugs. “Couldn’t find any cocoa. Didn’t want any people.”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes – not that she would’ve noticed him doing it anyway – and swallows down a thick swell of righteous indignation. “Well,” he starts, not entirely sure what else to say. Ava stirs in his arms, grounding him, distracting him from the anger beginning to simmer in his gut. “Everybody missed you. They send their love, hope you’re feeling better.”

“Feeling great,” she deadpans, still refusing to look their way.

“Great,” he mutters, exasperation spilling out. “I didn’t realize that booze was a cure-all for migraines, but, hey, you’re the doctor, right?”

She finally turns, face twisted in something akin to resentment. “That’s right. I am.”

“Great,” he repeats, feeling more than a bit at a loss for words. He turns on a heel and heads for the hall, tossing over his shoulder as he goes, “I’m gonna put the baby to bed. You should probably get some sleep too.”

He hears her rise, hears the clang of the bottle hitting the wooden table and the sloppy shuffle of her feet. But he doesn’t turn. “I know what you’re thinking,” she mutters, once they reach the nursery. Her arms folded tightly over her chest, chin jutting defiantly as she wobbles and leans heavily into the doorframe.

Steve says nothing, doesn’t so much as acknowledge her presence as he deftly strips Ava from her Christmas outfit – the second one for the evening, as someone let her and Morgan paint each other in red icing and cupcake crumbs – and maneuvers her sleep-heavy limbs into a holly-patterned onesie. She barely stirs… a gift, he can’t help but think, as she’s usually as light a sleeper as her father had always been.

“I can _feel_ the… the disappointment just _rolling_ off of you,” Tessa says from the doorway, accusing note to her voice. “You’re so… pissed.”

He gently lays the baby on her back in the crib, trails a finger slowly down her small, soft jawline – a silent _goodnight, angel_ – even as his own jaw clenches, teeth roughly grinding together. He turns to leave, Tessa stumbling awkwardly back a bit as he approaches and catching herself on the opposite wall in the hallway just as he softly pulls the door to the nursery shut behind him.

“Just say it,” she spits at him, frustrated – drunken – tears gathering in her eyes as she stares at the shadowy figure looming before her in the darkened hall.

He locks onto her gaze. “Why?” he asks simply, before easily shoving past her to head back into the living room. Without so much as turning his head to aim the words her way, he mutters into the thick air, “You just said you can _feel_ it.”

He lunges for the bag of gifts, gripping it harshly as he moves to the opposite side of the room where Ava’s playthings reside. Every muscle in his body tightens, throat constricting around unintended words – eager to keep from saying something he knows he’ll later regret – as he kneels down to unpack the toys into little cubbies. All the while, he feels Tessa’s eyes burning into his back, hears her tight, sharp breaths, _feels_ the tension in the room swell and peak.

When he finally finishes and turns, he sees her standing – swaying slightly – by the couch and end table, the mostly empty bottle of booze in front of her catching his eye. His gaze ticks down to it. “Looks like there’s still a little left. Might as well finish it off,” he says with an arrogant air.

“Fuck you,” she seethes through tightly clenched teeth.

He huffs out an incredulous breath as he rises, that long-held eyeroll finally popping free. “Yeah, sure. Fuck me.” Another scoff rolls off his tongue, hands falling to his hips and head shaking idly as he looks away, off towards the far wall. “Just… go to bed, Tess,” he tells her, voice thick with a sudden sense of defeat.

She laughs, sharp and breathy, a bitter, sardonic thing. “You don’t want to… tuck me in?” she asks, tone cold despite the suggestive twang to the words.

His eyes snap to hers, something in his mind snapping as well as a replay of that night from just a few weeks back – the one they’ve yet to speak of, yet to acknowledge at all – tumbles through his consciousness. His expression turns, a shocked, appalled pull of each and every muscle in his face. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You know what it means,” she challenges, chin jutting even more, nostrils flaring and setting her expression to one so defiant – so vicious – he almost doesn’t recognize her at all. “You know.”

“Tessa,” he starts, voice trailing off to nothing as his burning stare takes her in and searches for the woman he knows. He sees the unsteady stance, the puffy, red-rimmed eyes, tightly clenched fists concealed by her insolently crossed arms. She’s there, buried behind the pain and frustration. The guilt. She’s there, adamantly hiding, shutting herself off, refusing to recognize that he might just be able to help… if only she’d let him.

His irritation flairs. Even as his heart breaks.

“This is all your fault,” she metes out after a lingering moment of too-tense silence.

He shakes his head, a heavy sigh dropping from his lips as he once again looks away.

“I was _fine_ ,” she goes on, the words cloaked with anger, yet wobbling through the knot of tears gathering in her throat. “Before you came along, I was alone. And I was fine. Everything… everything was _fine_.”

_Ah_ , he thinks, a single deep breath popping free from his chest.

A swift release of her arms, just long enough to untuck a fist and swipe haphazardly at the hot tears beginning to trail down her cheeks. “But you were so desperate for a damn friend. And then you got me a job with Tony and the team. And you gave me more friends. And family. And you… you gave me _James_. And now… now…”

“Tessa,” he interrupts, voice low and deep. He looks up at her, his wide, blue eyes cutting through the dimness of the room as he latches onto her bleary stare. “When we met, I’d been dead for seventy years. I was in a whole new, strange world. I was just trying to figure things out. And you… you were a scientist who was keeping tabs on me like I was a damn lab rat.” His eyes widen, expression shifting as if to say, _listen up and listen good_. “I was _not_ desperate to be friends with you.”

More tears flow, her frown morphing into a sort of dour pout as she sniffles loudly and tries to maintain a steady stance across the room from him.

“ _You_ were the one who wanted to help _me_ ,” he goes on to say, his cadence slow and elucidatory. “You were the one who kept cracking jokes to put me at ease. You were the one who brought me books and movies and sent me emails filled with links about all the historical events I missed. You were the one who taught me what email was. You were the one who pushed to be my friend.”

Slowly, she tugs her bottom lip in between her teeth and begins nervously gnawing at the corner of it, all the while her gaze remaining trained on the man before her.

His expression softens a bit, frustration slowly melting as he watches her protective shell begin to crumble. “And I might’ve introduced you to Tony, but you’re the one who took the job with him, _and_ agreed to work with the Avengers. And as for the friends and family _I_ introduced you to, you knew Clint before we ever met. Hell, you saved his life. So you can’t… _blame_ me for bringing you in here.”

He takes a single wide step towards her, halting when a thick breath shudders from her lungs. “Not the same,” she mumbles, shaking her head quickly to-and-fro as her eyes blink painfully shut.

He nods simply, slowly. “You sought us out. Me. And Tony. And Clint. _And_ Bucky.” Her face twists at mention of the final name, arms tightening further around her middle. “You weren’t _fine_ being alone, Tess. No one is.”

Wide, wet eyes shoot back up to him. “It was better than _this_ ,” she hisses out.

He continues to nod, the gesture now becoming more an annoyed tick as he takes a moment to think on what to say. The tiny tree in the corner – lights out, unplugged by her some time after he and Ava left this afternoon – catches his eye. The handful of presents residing there, all neatly wrapped by him and him alone. A single photo on the shelf – standing out from all the others – from so many years ago… Tessa and Natasha and an obviously plastered Wanda, smiling wide with mugs of hot cocoa in their hands and snowflakes resting in their hair.

And the words all begin to flow. “Nat put up lights in the common room, had a big tree set up that we kept having to chase the cats out of. Cookies. Cupcakes. Hot chocolate.” He flips an errant hand through the air to indicate the bottle of liquor still sitting on the table by her side. “Drinks. Food. She went all out. You think she did that for herself?”

Tessa looks away, a soft redness flushing her cheeks as she once again begins biting at her lip.

“She did it for Ava. Because this is her first real Christmas. And she did it for you. And… damn it, Tess…” His head begins a languid shake. “Ava loved it. She loved the lights. And the tree. She sat in Rhodey’s lap and just babbled at him while he fed her way too much sugar,” he mutters with a fond laugh. “She played with Morgan, and… you should’ve seen the look in her eyes when we turned the two of them loose on the presents. You think she enjoyed her birthday,” he goes on, seeing in his mind’s eye the look on his angel’s face when they _taught_ her how to rip apart wrapping paper. But… no. That memory is sullied too, he realizes swiftly, ire blooming in his gut once again. His expression hardens, sours. “Of course, you had a lot to drink that day too, didn’t you?” He shrugs. “Maybe you don’t remember.”

“Don’t,” falls from her lips in a low, warning growl.

“No, I get it,” he states, tone seeming utterly genuine despite the absolute derision wrapped about each and every word. “The whole pump and dump thing was a real pain. Now that you’re not nursing anymore, you can just…” Again, he waves his hand at the bourbon on the table. “Drink yourself into fucking oblivion.”

“That’s not – ” she begins, shoulders stiffening as a building heat begins firing through her core.

But Steve’s swift to interrupt, all patience gone. He simply _cannot_ hear anymore self-pity or grief-fueled excuses or bitter arguments spill from her liquor-soaked lips. “You should’ve seen her,” he repeats, voice deep, almost threatening. “You should’ve been there. For her. For your daughter. For _Bucky’s_ daughter.”

“You don’t understand,” she argues lamely, a rush of utter exhaustion surging suddenly through her.

“You’re wrong,” he tells her pointedly. “I do understand. I understand that you’re sad and angry and – ”

“You _don’t_ understand,” she says again, voice nearing a shout.

But he goes on over the top of her protest. “You miss him… all of them. And you’re pissed they’re not here. You’re pissed they left. And you’re pissed you couldn’t stop it from happening.”

“And you know that because you feel the same way?!” she yells bitterly, the question ringing forth as an accusation. “You don’t understand!”

From the other room, a shrill cry breaks out, Ava waking with a sad and angry shout of her own. Both sets of eyes tick toward the hall, but neither of them move, too paralyzed by their outrage, too stubborn to be the one who loses footing first. “You’re _scared_ ,” Steve says then, his voice low and strict. “You’re scared of what might happen if you let go and move on. What it might mean.”

“Fuck. You,” she chants once again.

“And you’re scared of what’ll happen if the rest of us move on and you don’t.” He steps closer and leans in, serious, challenging look on his face. “And you know what, Tess, you should be. Because if you don’t figure out a way to get your shit together, you’re gonna lose the few people you have left. Including your daughter. Because I’ll be damned if I let you take that little girl down whatever hole you’re so eager to bury yourself in.”

She says nothing in response, no words gather in her throat nor even take shape in her mind. There’s truly nothing to say to at all, she realizes. Nothing to do either, but watch through a drunken, tear-filled haze as someone other than her – other than _mama_ – goes to comfort and rock her daughter back to sleep.


	24. Gingerbread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the last chapter laid out a bit of a rough Christmas... maybe this will make up for that.

_Wakanda, before:_

Bucky rolls his eyes and glares at the young woman on the screen before him, taking in the rather taunting expression on her face. This damn computer Skype-type network _thing_ still feels awkward as hell to him, not to mention unnecessary. What was wrong with using a good old fashioned telephone anyway? If they talked that way, at least he wouldn’t have to _see_ when his friends were laughing at him. It’s so… stupid. This is _not_ how people are supposed to communicate. Not really. Not all the time. No… they should be able to talk in person.

He lets out a slow sigh. “Look, Wanda,” he starts up again, voice calm, stare carrying a bit less of an edge than it had been when this conversation first began. “I know you guys are busy… doing whatever the hell it is that you’re doing. But… I’m begging you here. Really. Please come to Wakanda for Christmas.”

“Well, James,” she intones, painfully coy smirk rolling over her features. “I had no idea you were so desperate to see me.”

He rolls his eyes again, impatience licking at his barely controlled temper. “She can’t make gingerbread,” he lets out alongside a near growl, as though that short utterance – and the emphatic show of irritation – should be enough for the woman to see, to understand. “I think it might be killing her.”

Wanda giggles softly.

“It’s killing me.”

She shoots him a faux-sincere look, clear as day, all the way from wherever-the-hell-in-the-world they are these days. “So you’re saying that you’re actually just desperate for Sam’s cookies.”

“Wanda,” he intones thickly. “This is serious.”

Her face cracks, bright smile returning. “You think you might be being just a _bit_ dramatic?”

“I wish smell-o-vision was a thing so you could know how bad this place stinks.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust to drive home his point, a quirk of his head shooting a glance behind him at the just cleaned – but still reeking – kitchen. “She forgot about the last batch and left them in the oven when we went to bed. Burnt smell was so bad, I woke up thinking I was having a stroke. Had to open every damn window in the place.” He lets out another long, draining sigh, drops his head into his hands and scrubs exhaustedly at his face for a moment before popping back up with a weary look. “She was so embarrassed. And… I don’t know… upset.” His arms fold casually over his chest, another deflating breath oozing out of him as he leans back in the chair. “She cried herself back to sleep,” he mutters, voice low and sober. “She just… misses you. All of you.”

Wanda’s expression softens, gradually fading from joy and amusement into something more solemn, almost pensive. “We miss her too. Both of you,” flows out of the laptop speakers, the lightly accented words – filled with the sort of sweet sincerity only this young woman could posses – somehow immediately setting him at ease. “I’ll talk to the others and see what we can do.”

000

The lab had been quiet all day, all week, in fact, thanks to Shuri’s visit to the US. The princess had left three days earlier – taking her favored staff along – to tour the newly completed outreach centers and get the coursework and curriculum up and going for the science and mathematics programs. They had started in LA, then onto Houston. Chicago was tomorrow, then Dayton, Philadelphia, Atlanta, and finally New York. _New York_. Tessa’s home. A home she may never see again.

Shuri had asked her to take over while she was away, to be a fulltime scientist once again – burying herself in lab work, progressions, and computer simulations – instead of just being a parttime consultant. It meant that Bucky had to handle most of the work at home – like completing the stable for the goats and, well, caring for the goats – which was an obvious win for her. And, of course, she got to play – with the most state-of-the-art tech in the world – in a lab that hosts the kind of cutting edge research she had only ever dreamed of doing.

And yet there’s something about it all that feels… sad. Contrived. Hollow.

Perhaps it’s the fact that Shuri’s not here to play with her. Or maybe it’s just that this lab isn’t hers, and even just being around _science_ these days tends to leave her feeling painfully nostalgic for her old life. Or maybe it’s that she and Bucky only _just_ started figuring things out – figuring _each other_ out – and building a life and home here… one that she really should be prioritizing above work right now. Or – yes, this is certainly at the top of the list – it could be that part of what’s keeping her from enjoying this most delightful work-a-thon is the fact that it’s nearly Christmas and her husband – despite his adamant denials that he cares at all about not being able to go home for the holiday – has been sulking and moping ever since December hit.

“I don’t think you get what I’m saying here,” she argues at the man in the computer, her left leg bouncing wildly beneath the counter as she sits atop the stainless steel stool in her corner of the lab. “Steve, I made perfectly good oatmeal raisin cookies the other day. Oatmeal _raisin_. Trash cookies. Treats that the devil himself wouldn’t touch. But, for what they were, they were good. And you know what he told me?”

Steve shrugs, a teasing glint already burning in his bright blue eyes. “No.”

“He said they weren’t as good as Sam’s.”

He cocks an inquiring brow. “Well, were they?”

“They _were_ Sam’s!” she shouts, her voice echoing a bit through the lab. “You think I just pulled a recipe for oatmeal raisin cookies outta my ass? Sam and I baked those damn things all the time after the motorcycle accident. James ate so many I started to worry he’d develop diabetes. And towards the end, I was really making them all on my own anyway while Sam just watched and rambled on about that girl he was seeing.” She huffs out a breath and slumps in her seat. “What was her name? Bitchy McBitcherson? Sluterina Whoreivitch?” She shakes her head slowly, almost methodically, as a crafty – dangerous – gleam rolls across her gaze. “I never liked her. Even in the beginning, there was always something about her… And then she goes back to her ex? After spending _months_ with Sam… months with the best guy – the best _human_ – in the whole freakin’ world. What an asshole.”

“Woah, calm down there,” he says with a chuckle.

Tessa’s bottom lip pops out in a petulant pout and her arms cross staunchly over her chest. “I hate her,” she metes out, eyes narrowing perilously. “Wanna… destroy her.”

“I’m pretty sure Sam’s over it,” he points out, shaking his head, easy grin still playing on his lips.

She perks back up, shoulders shifting back as she looks at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Did he tell you that? Is he seeing someone else now? Is that why he doesn’t want to come here for Christmas? Is that why _you_ don’t want to come here? Are you seeing someone too?”

He lets out a small snort. “Yeah, Tess, we’re sneaking in double dates between hiding from the authorities and taking down small governments.”

She sighs wistfully, chin falling to her fist as she leans forward. “So romantic.”

“How many cups of coffee have you had today?” he asks, his voice breaking just a bit with bitten back laughter.

She shrugs. “Unclear. When I’m in the lab, my mug just magically refills.”

“Is not magic,” sounds from behind in a cheery, male voice. “Is me!”

Tessa smiles, wide and bright and almost childlike. “That’s Atandwa,” she tells Steve. “He’s like my new Claire. Only he’s a scientist too, so when I ramble on about some experiment, he doesn’t just feign interest. Actually, Claire was really bad about even just that… so _obvious_ that she just didn’t care about anything other than schedules and numbers and, I don’t know, management.” Her expression shifts, a deep frown suddenly tugging at her lips. “I miss her. Can you find her and bring her here too?”

“For Christmas?” he asks, incredulity edging around the words. “She might want to spend the holidays with her family. She has a kid, you know.”

“Yeah,” she pouts. “Kids ruin everything.” Her eyes tick back up to the man on the screen in front of her. “You have to come, Steve. He’s losing it here without you. Without _all_ of you.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he counters with a self-satisfied smirk.

“A couple weeks ago, we finally started watching Homeland. And now he won’t shut up about how, _if Carrie was more like Natasha,_ ” she starts in a put-on, nasally tone, _“this whole thing would be over in a day_.” Her eyes roll dramatically. “Seriously, he actually said that. _One episode and_ bam _, she’d be done. Threat nullified, terrorists defeated, case closed._ ”

Steve lets out another chuckle, picturing Bucky talking over the show to actually _praise_ Natasha. “He might be right,” he comments with a wry smirk.

“And he _needs_ Sam’s cookies,” she goes on, words just continuing to spill out as both legs now tremble and bounce beneath the tabletop. “He simply won’t accept mine.” Her head drops a bit, a deep breath spilling out just before she mutters, “I suck at the gingerbread ones anyway.”

“Okay, okay,” he capitulates finally. “Look, I can’t make any promises. We’re kind of in the middle of something right now. But, I’ll see what I can do. Alright?”

She shoots wide, wild eyes back his way, an almost frantic-looking stare locking onto the face on the screen before her. “Whatever you can do, Steve. Whatever you can do, just… do it.”

He laughs again and nods. “Okay, I’ll do what I can. But you? You need to back down on the caffeine a little. I’m afraid you’re heart might explode.”

“Nah,” she says, an incredulous snort tacked on for good measure. “In the last two hours I’ve run a successful regeneration of epithelial cells by melding Dr. Cho’s research with Wakandan tech, set up a _flawless_ new methodology for future iterations of CRISPR, and convinced you to bring everyone here for Christmas! This is clearly the exact level of caffeine needed for me to get shit done.”

000

Maybe he hadn’t _promised_ anything, but when Steve said he’d try, Tessa knew that was almost as good as a done deal. So she isn’t surprised at all – though delighted just the same – to find the lot of them knocking on her door the morning of Christmas Eve.

Oddly, Bucky doesn’t seem surprised either. In fact, for some inexplicable reason, he looks almost smug… as though he’d somehow planned the visit himself. “Yeah, because I did,” he says, a confused countenance aimed her way when she brings it up that afternoon. “I’ve been talking to Steve and Wanda about it for weeks.”

Tessa’s jaw drops as she slowly spins to face her rather amused looking friends. “Well, _I_ have been talking to Steve for weeks too. And he never said anything about you two… planning anything.”

Sam steps in between her and the others, effectively slicing through her heated stare as he makes his way for the plush-looking chair in the corner, mug of cocoa steaming in his hands. “You two wanted to surprise each other,” he says lightly, crooked smile splitting his face. “It was cute.”

They all settle quickly in – after grabbing lunch at the bazaar near the palace and walking the perimeter of their expansive property – each finding a spot in the living room of the quaint little house, sipping on hot chocolate, filled to the brim with bourbon – _good_ bourbon – that the team had brought by way of a gift.

“Not sure that cocoa is the best thing to mix this with right now,” Wanda mutters almost to herself as she blows on the hot liquid in her mug. Then, looking up to find all eyes on her, she quickly adds on, “Just because it’s so warm here.”

Sam’s brows shoot up. “Warm? It’s _hot_ here. Not that I’m complaining. We just spent a week in Norway. In December. This… this works for me,” he finishes, taking another long sip and settling back into the pillows behind him.

“No snow, though,” Natasha intones as she leans on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. She dumps some more bourbon into her now cold cocoa and raises a brow as she glances over at Tessa. “Figured you’d be a wreck, spending Christmas like this.”

“Oh, I got snow,” Tessa breathes out, eyes widening. “Plenty of it. I should be good for a while now.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and lets out an annoyed huff. “Was just trying to do something nice,” he mutters under his breath, rising from his spot on the arm of the sofa to go pluck the half-bottle of liquor from Natasha’s hand.

A confused silence follows, perked ears and narrowed eyes trailing after him as everyone waits for an explanation. Steve finally speaks up for the small out-of-the-loop group of visitors, a confused cadence dripping as he asks, “Uh, what did you… do?”

Tessa plops down on the couch and leans back with a sigh, easily sandwiching herself in between Steve and Wanda. “He took me up the mountain, to the Jabari lands.” Again, her eyes go wide, head shaking slowly as she silently relives that day. “There was snow. But…”

Bucky drains the two fingers worth of liquor he’d just poured into his mug and fills it up with more before stepping back into the room and dropping heavily into the chair just relinquished by Natasha. “Mountain versus Tessa,” he intones thickly. “Mountain won.”

She nods emphatically. “Too tall, couldn’t take it. I like my feet to remain closer to sea level.”

Sam snickers from her right. “Altitude got to ya?”

“I thought I was gonna die,” she replies. “And coming from someone who’s actually done that once or twice already, that’s saying something.”

“I wasn’t too sure she’d make it either,” Bucky muses, teasing glint dancing in his pale blue eyes.

She glares openly at him. “And yet you left me there. Alone.”

Natasha saunters back into the room, popping Bucky upside the back of the head as she passes, whether for taking her seat or for leaving her friend to die alone on a mountaintop, he’s not sure. She heads for Sam and the oversized chair in the corner, and squeezes in beside him before cocking a smug brow over at the irritated super soldier.

“Ow,” Bucky complains with swift grimace and a dangerous stare. His eyes veer back to Tessa, catching her quick snort of a laugh and plainly informing her, “You weren’t alone.”

“No, that’s true,” she admits with a sigh. “I had M’Baku. At least he was there to take care of me. Unlike my husband, who thought it was more important to go off and investigate the Jabari training grounds while I laid there in the cold… _dying_.”

He shrugs and leans forward, dropping his elbows to his knees. “Had to get a look at their armory while we were up there. And get in a quick sparring session. And for the record,” he says, reclining back again and raising a pointed finger at his wife, “M’Baku didn’t _take care of you_. He made one of his servants do it while he lurked and told you stories about all the battles he’s won against neighboring tribes.”

“He was trying to convince me he could take you out and win my hand,” she states with a shit-eating grin. “You should be thanking me. I almost let him do it.”

He issues out a short snort – “Let him try.” – and takes another long pull of his drink.

“So,” Steve smarts from Tessa’s left, “sounds like you guys had a fun little holiday getaway.”

“Well,” she breathes out, both brows popping high. “It was no trip to the Poconos.”

“You’ve never been to the Poconos,” Bucky smarts, coy grin blooming on his face.

Her eyes narrow, playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You don’t know that. You don’t know me,” she challenges mockingly. “You didn’t even know that I planned this whole visit… got Steve to bring everyone here for Christmas. Just for you.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” he cedes, more than a hint of sarcasm to his voice. “You planned it. Good job.”

Her cunning grin grows wider, an impish glean burning in her bright green eyes as she wiggles her shoulders out from between Wanda and Steve and leans forward. She bounces her gaze over to Natasha, just briefly, and turns back to Bucky to say, “I got your favorite spy to come visit you. You know, the one who could easily _kick that redheaded terrorist’s ass into next week_? Maybe she’ll give you an autograph.”

His face burns with a sudden horrified blush, teasing smirk falling swiftly from his lips and being replaced by a thin, tight line. His eyes shift over to the newly blonde spy, take in the crooked – quite pleased – smile cracking her face. “I said she was better than some fictional CIA operative on TV,” he mutters, voice low. “Doesn’t mean much.”

“Awww,” Sam singsongs, giving Natasha a little hip check and jostle in the overstuffed chair. His playful gaze never leaves Bucky’s – increasingly scowly – face as he declares simply, “He _loves_ you.”

“No I don’t,” he shoots out, far too fast and peevish to sound like anything other than a child’s self-conscious rebuttal. Hearing his own tone – and also the stifled giggles of the others in the room – Bucky swiftly clears his throat and says, with a very staunch air, “I think Natalia is a _competent_ counterespionage agent.”

“Oh, no,” Sam goes on, leaning forward and slowly working his way out of the chair. He plucks Nat’s left leg, which had been strewn over his lap, and holds it up as he rises, draping it over the arm of the chair in his stead. “You love her. And you love Steve.”

“We already knew that,” Natasha chimes in blithely from behind him.

He advances on the increasingly irritated-looking, metal-armed man before him. “And you love Wanda.”

“Wanda’s great,” Bucky retorts, a casual note to his voice as he continues to track Sam’s methodical approach.

He stops directly in front of him, stares down at the hulking man with a spirited look in his eye and an utterly teasing grin splitting his face. “And you love _me_.”

Bucky leans coolly back in his seat, slowly folding his arms across his chest as he stares up at Sam with a pensive, calculating set to his features. He pulls a deep breath in through his nose, narrows his eyes deliberately, and finally speaks, words edged with a deeply brazen quality. “Go make me some gingerbread,” he tells him pointedly, “and I’ll love you ‘til the end of time.”


	25. I'll Be Better

_New York, after:_

Sleep continues to allude her. A few more nights like this and even just the concept of sleep will be little more than a fleeting memory, a tattered old photograph, only recognizable through the haze of drowsy wistfulness.

_Sleep_ , he tells her dully, the word rolling off his tongue like a stone, heavy as the metal arm draped over her core. _Go to sleep_ , he says, as though it’s a request she might actually be able to grant.

But, no. Her mind continues to spin and reel, incoherent thoughts and untenable emotions spilling out and flinging about, creating a cacophony inside her skull. Her mind is loud. Too loud. Her body too weak.

A shuddering breath pulls from deep, deep inside her chest, sputtering wholly, uninterrupted, past her lips. Because – she realizes with a familiar sort of despair – the weight of him is gone, that heavy, stilling arm lifted from her middle. A blink. A breath. And it’s all gone.

It’s a choice between an all-consuming sob or a bitter, angry groan… a choice her body makes all on its own as it twists almost violently, shifting so that she might beat out a quick, heavy rhythm into the pillow before tucking it beneath her chin. The groan. More a moan, really. Thick and anguished, and all too common these days. These nights.

Her lids fall shut again, each time on a whisper and a prayer, a flutter of unanswered promises just as brittle and tenuous as any he’d ever uttered to her.

_It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere._ _I love you. I’ll always love you._

Then the touch returns, soft and tender, cold fingertips tracing along her spine, running in across her shoulder blade and setting her to shudder. Soft and delicate with a lingering burn. A ghost of a touch. A ghost. Nothing more.

“Tess,” she hears then, a sound from _outside_ herself. A soft, deep tenor cutting through the stale air of the room and the thick fog in her mind. “Hey.”

She rolls over in bed, inadvertently tugging the wad of sheets spun about her legs with her. A harsh huff of annoyance spills from her chest as her still restless legs wiggle and kick in a futile attempt to be free. Her eyes squint as they catch the bright light spilling in from the hallway, the wide open door allowing the warm yellow glow to burst through the otherwise dark and stuffy room. She looks up and sees Steve, his figure outlined in a bright halo as he stands at the foot of her bed.

“What time is it?” she mumbles with a soft moan, shifting to her elbow to prop herself up.

He moves around to the side of the bed – saving her eyes from the clearly too bright hall light – and drops down to the very edge of the mattress beside her. “Almost ten.”

Her head whips to the left, to the window across the room. The blackout curtains there can effectively shut out even the sunniest of mornings, but still, she was certain it was… “Night?”

The smallest grin pulls across his face, light chuckle bleeding into his response, “Yeah, Tess. Ten at night.”

She drops from her elbow with a sigh, back of her head colliding with the too soft pillow. “I can’t sleep,” she mutters, an almost comic lilt to her otherwise desperate tone.

“Yeah,” Steve says with a nod. “I figured. Could hear you tossing and turning in here.” _All night. All day._ Though he chooses not to elaborate, decides she doesn’t need to be reminded that she’s been in bed – _not_ sleeping – for just over 48 hours now.

The past week had gone by in an achingly slow and silent crawl, the two of them barely sharing more than a handful of words each day, all of them either directives or reminders about Ava. Tessa went to work and when she returned home, she put the baby to bed and almost immediately creeped beneath the covers herself. Steve filled his days with storybooks and _enriching play activities_ with the one year old, only to be sent back to his cold, lonely apartment across the hall every night.

They didn’t discuss what had happened over Christmas, not really, not with any kind of clarity. And they still had not spoken of what occurred in the kitchen that night, so many weeks ago.

New Years came and went without any fanfare. No giant Stark party. No acknowledgment even, from either Tessa or Steve. No merriment nor celebration of any kind. On the plus side, though, there had also been no booze, Tessa not having had a single drink – not even a post-work beer – since Christmas Eve night. Steve was glad for that. But it didn’t by any stretch make him think that she was _okay_.

Working on New Years meant that the hospital gifted her with a long weekend off. Four days in a row with virtually nothing to do. It _sounded_ like a gift, anyway. It felt more like a curse. Day two, and here she is, miserable in bed, unsure of whether it’s even day or night. And Steve, still, even after hours of uneventful peace, unable to make himself leave her apartment, knowing full well that he’s _needed_ here, both by Ava and – whether she’d ever admit it or not – by Tessa too.

“Anything I can do to help?” he offers simply, certain of what her answer will be, but eager to lend any kind of aid regardless.

She looks over at him, studies him for a long, silent moment, gaze lingering on the sullen, tired expression painting his face. She had already apologized for what happened at Christmas, had said all the words that needed to be said – _I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do, I know. I won’t let it happen again._ But of course, that apology was just for her drunken behavior, not for being… whatever she was. Sad. Alone. Depressed. Not for spinning and sputtering and falling into that deep, dark hole that somehow always feels so painfully like home. “No.”

He nods, already dour expression cracking even further.

“Sorry, Steve,” peels out of her in a single breathy moan. “I… I’m sorry.”

The nod turns into a swift shake of his head, the pathetic breaking of her voice causing a knot to form in his stomach, a tightness to gather in his chest, as he chokes out, “No. Don’t.”

“I just…” she begins, a sheen of tears now coating her eyes. “I just can’t…”

He nudges her hip and offers a subtle little _shush_. “It’s okay, Tess,” he mutters, the words tasting like a lie on his tongue. “It’s okay.”

“No,” she breathes out, swallowing down a thick swell of tears as she pulls herself upright with a groan. “No. It’s not.” A quick swipe across her face with the back of her hand, a pitiful attempt to erase the sorrow and frustration, and she turns a seemingly stoic stare on him. “No. You said it the other day, and you were right. I have to get my shit together. I just…”

“I know,” he interrupts softly. “I know it’s not as easy as just… deciding to do it.”

She lets out a short, sardonic snort of a laugh. “Yeah. No. Obviously.”

“I really do want to help, Tess,” he tells her, a striking sincerity bubbling through his voice, washing over his face as he reaches out and takes her hand. “However I can. Whatever you need. I know it’s not easy.” He gives her fingers a sharp squeeze before letting go and leaning back with a sigh. “I’m not there either,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Wherever _there_ even is.” His eyes tick back over to her curious gaze. “I don’t know how to… move on. Not really. Not entirely. I don’t know how to… let go. Don’t know that I even want to,” he finishes with a shrug.

“But you can function,” she muses thickly, both brows rising high. “You can sleep. I assume.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Yeah. Most of the time. I guess.”

She scoots over, awkwardly – legs and hips still confined in the twisted sheets – moving to the center of the bed before patting the mattress next to her.

It had been a while – a long while, really – since they attempted this practice. Since they laid together in her and Bucky’s bed, curled about each other in the dark of night. It had been months since Tessa needed to hear – to _feel_ – the steady _thump-thump_ of his heart beating in his chest, the slow, methodical rhythm reminding her of her husband’s warm and safe embrace as it lulled her to sleep. Once Ava was able to sleep _mostly_ through the night, her own sleep schedule had evened out, the return to work also eliciting that most welcome kind of exhaustion that allowed her to fall asleep on her own. And that reminder of Bucky, that comfort from Steve, was no longer needed.

But now? Well, nothing else seems to be working. And she’s fairly confident that she’s on the verge of losing her damn mind. And he did just say he wanted to help…

Steve doesn’t hesitate in the least to slide off his shoes and slip in beside her. He doesn’t think to ask her if this is what she wants, if him climbing into her bed beside her and guiding her heavy head to his chest is what she was asking with that little pat of the mattress. He doesn’t ask himself if he’s okay with holding her close after their confrontation last week… after the days of distant – hurtful – silence in between. He doesn’t take even a moment to ruminate on whether or not being this close to her – to the scent of her vanilla soap mixed with the salty tang of restless sweat, to the feel of her slight body pressed tightly to his as her hot breaths spill across his chest – is a good idea. He doesn’t do any of that because in his heart he _knows_.

“I’ll be better,” she mumbles softly, lips pressed into his thin T-shirt. “I promise. I’ll try.”

He drops his chin to the top her head, her thick curls tickling his neck as he breathes out an oddly relaxed breath. “I know,” he whispers easily before placing a chaste – if lingering – kiss atop her crown. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been awhile... I've been struggling a bit to bridge the gap between where we are now and all of the (admittedly, more fun and exciting) stuff that I have written for later in the story. But it's getting there. I know this one is short - and still pretty dark and angsty - but we're at a turning point here, so please (pretty please?) bear with me. 
> 
> Thanks as always to everyone for reading and commenting... it really does help brighten my day and push me to keep up with the writing. Thank you!


	26. A Beacon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A throwback to when Tessa was not yet Tessa Sullivan (or Barnes, for that matter), but was instead known just as a _gifted_ little girl named Anna.

_Upstate New York, long before:_

“Anna?” The name resounds through the room, bouncing harshly off the dark wood floors and warm-colored walls. She feels a hit of impatience – of annoyance – jab into her from the woman to her left. But she doesn’t raise her head up from the listless stare directed at her empty desktop. “Anna?!” This time it’s harsher, more biting. And she can feel a desperate surge of anger rush through her. “Look. At. Me.”

“Jean,” she hears from the opposite side of the room, the soft and soothing tone of her brother’s voice – of her _one remaining_ brother – finally causing her to glance up.

But Jean doesn’t notice the shift in the girl’s attention. She’s too busy staring Scott down, her body pivoted away from the young girl, twisted and set with a defiant glare as she folds her arms across her chest and tells the hunched man lingering in the doorway, “She can’t keep doing this, Scott. It has to stop.”

Anna watches as her brother crosses the room, extends both hands to her teacher, palms falling gently atop the woman’s shoulders as he tries to calm her. She can feel it too, the warm energy spilling off of him and into this woman whom – it’s no secret to anyone at the school – he so completely loves. But… how dare he soothe her – she can’t help but think as she watches in stunned silence – when he’s the one who buried his own brother mere weeks ago. How dare he give away that comfort that must be so lacking in his own heart.

“I know,” he says to Jean, a quick glance at the girl beside her – looking so small, bent and broken as she slouches deeper behind her desk – signaling the redhead that Anna is finally paying attention.

She whips around, her stare sharp and scathing for just a fraction of a moment before morphing into something akin to desperation. “Anna,” she breathes out, finally connecting with the girl’s eyes. “You cannot keep doing this.”

The girl juts her chin defiantly – oddly intimidatingly for a ten year old – and says simply. “I _hate_ her.”

The fire returns to Jean’s eyes. “I don’t care,” she says, words clipped and lips pinched. “Kitty is a student here, same as you. She is a fellow classmate, and a fellow mutant, and you _will_ treat her with kindness and respect.”

A defeated breath blows out of Scott as he steps out from behind her and kneels down to get on Anna’s level. _Love_ , that’s what she feels emanate from him as he reaches out and grasps her hand. _Sorrow_ , that’s what she’s hit with when he breathes out her name – a mere whisper she can barely even hear. “Annie.”

Tears begin to prick at her eyes – not for the first time today, no, not even close – and a sudden wave of regret crashes over her. “I’m sorry, okay?!” she shouts, the outburst causing him to rocket back and barely catch himself on his heels. “She’s just so annoying. And she was in my face. She’s always… she’s just…”

“She was trying to be nice,” Jean supplies, her tall frame looming above, arms once again crossed over her chest. “She was trying to help, Anna.”

“Well, I don’t need her help! And I don’t want it! And… and… yeah, I shouldn’t have shocked her. I _know_. But… but… Kitty Pryde can just shove it!”

And with that, she’s pulled swiftly from her seat, her brother’s hand now wrapped tightly around her wrist instead of laying delicately atop her fingers – squeezing and _hurting_ instead of showing any warmth or comfort – as he drags her down the hall to the Professor’s study.

Children often get overwhelmed, Charles Xavier knows this. And his _gifted_ children are, of course, no different. They have temper tantrums and lash out. They push the boundaries and challenge the adults in their lives to secure a sense of independence. They misbehave – despite _knowing_ better – because they are too young to be able to confront what they _feel_. And the children in this school – his often abandoned and mistreated mutant _freaks_ – are often forced to confront the sorts of feelings that few children, or adults for that matter, in the outside world will ever have to endure.

Anna Summers is one of these… unfortunate children. Long before she had arrived at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youth, tiny fists gripping tightly to the fingers of her newfound brothers, she had already been through a world of hurt. Abandoned by her mother at an age too young for her to even recall, her father never having been in her life at all, she was raised by her grandfather until the age of five or six – the records from social services weren’t quite clear. Nor did those records tell the whole story of her grandfather’s death… not the cause nor the impetus, which Xavier knew to be related to his granddaughter’s odd abilities. Power presenting in one so young was rare – he himself had experienced it, and a handful of others he’d known throughout the years – but beyond simply being rare, it was often strong, intense. And dangerous. 

Their kind would likely always face outside dangers… _normal_ people being either too stubborn to adapt or too scared of the peculiar to see past it to find the human. Being different is never a _safe_ thing. But for most mutants, there are dangers lurking within as well. Even at just ten years of age, Anna has a power blooming and swelling inside of her that the Professor still cannot entirely gauge. And how, then, if _he_ can’t even fully understand what she’s capable of, can he possibly teach her to hone her abilities? How can a child who can barely control her own emotions be expected to take on the energies of others? Especially now. Especially when her own emotions are so heightened, so tightly wound with pain and grief.

And yet _now_ is precisely the time when it’s most imperative that she learn to take control.

He feels her long before Scott bursts through his office door with the girl in tow. He feels the desperate, angry, _lost_ energy swirling through the air, hurtling down the hall with each and every one of her stubbornly halted steps. He hears the cacophony of disparate, frantic thoughts – childlike curses and deep, burning sobs mingling in with wrenching apologies, hopeful denials, and stoic pleas for everything to just _stop_ – that tumble aimlessly through her mind. He watches her bright red face pinch and glare as she’s brought into the room, watches as she does all she can to cool her façade and appear… fine. Untouched. Normal.

The Professor draws a long breath into his suddenly tight chest – his entire body almost sizzling with the wild energy being put off by the little girl – and he waves Scott away, a silent request for him to leave the two of them to it.

There’s a long, tense moment of silence that broods between them once Scott shuts the door. A single drawn-out moment wherein Anna trains a dangerous glare on the man before her, pointed stare clearly telling him to leave her be. But he knows that she won’t be able to calm herself, not now that she’s worked herself into such a state. So he reaches into her mind – just a bit, just a touch – and offers a cooling balm, a sort of psychic embrace that causes her spinning mind and swirling emotions to settle just enough for both of them to be able to simply breathe.

“I will not tell you that Alex wouldn’t want you to behave this way,” he says to her once he sees her shoulders begin to drop. He levels her with a challenging stare to counter the defiant glare – small chin jutting – still painted on her face. He raises a single brow. “I will only say that _I_ will not allow you behave this way.” His head ticks to the side, indicating the small sofa in front of him. “Sit.”

She does so, never breaking from her sulk. “Are you going to kick me out?” she asks, tone insolent despite a light warble to her voice.

“No, Anna,” he says simply, shaking his head in a slow to-and-fro. “But you mustn’t continue in this way.”

In the days following Alex’s death, Anna had done little more than sit. In her room, alone, she sat. At meal times, staring blankly at her untouched food, she sat. In class, silent and unengaged, she sat. She barely spoke, hardly ate, rarely even cried. She merely… sat.

But more recently, as she began to emerge from that stage of her grief, she had begun to act out. Purposefully breaking lab equipment in class. Talking back – despite still being nearly speechless at other times – to her teachers… to her only remaining family. And now, in an absolutely forbidden manner, using her powers on fellow students. Sure, it was just a simple _zap_ , not anything that could’ve caused lasting damage to little Kitty Pryde, but it was still a steadfast rule she had broken. It was still _wrong_.

“She made me mad,” the slight girl before him says, her face pinching into an even deeper pout.

He smiles. “No one can _make_ you mad, my dear. No one has the power to alter what you feel but _you._ You must learn how to take control of your emotions.” She releases the tiniest snort from her spot across from him, her green eyes dramatically rolling. “This is something we all must learn to do. But you, Anna, for you, it could mean the difference between life and death.”

She glares openly at him. “I wasn’t going to kill her,” she argues, an incredulousness to her tone. “I’m not… _bad_.”

“I never said that you were,” he utters with a soothing lilt. “And I know that you would never mean to truly hurt Kitty, nor anyone else. But, Anna,” he begins, his voice dropping an octave as he leans forward in his chair. “You must understand that you have no chance of being able master any of your gifts if you cannot first learn to control your own emotions. Your own _energy_. Do you understand this?”

Her face hardens, the stubborn lift to her chin shifting into a callous sort of annoyance that the Professor recognizes immediately as a flippant mask for confusion.

He lets out a sigh. “Science is your love,” he mutters, the words tumbling almost dreamily into the small space between them. “You focus on what you can see, what you can quantifiably measure. I see it when you train as well… always focused on the _visible_ , halting an object’s kinetic energy and turning it against it. Or the tangible… eagerly pulling on that life force all beings share and using it to shock or zap.” He shows off an utterly cheerless grin, cocking his head as he states, “You think that the energy you can control is just that which you can _physically_ perceive… through sight or touch. But it is so much more.”

She shrugs. “I know.”

“Do you?” he asks, brows tugging tightly together. “I think that you see emotion as a hinderance. I think that you recoil from that side of your gift, that power that lets you sense what others feel. And lets you _use_ what they feel. I think that you are so frightened by _feeling_ at all that you refuse to accept – ”

“Stop it!” she interrupts, her sudden, tinny shout echoing through the large study.

But the Professor is unfazed by the outburst, his demeanor not changing in the least as he continues to calmly connect with her now watery eyes. “Every one of us struggles with this, Anna. Every one of us has to learn to control our emotions, to set aside pain and not get overwhelmed by passion. To move through turmoil and excitement and calm the mind, bring it to a place of discipline. But you must move _through_ it. You cannot deny and push back. You cannot pretend that the pain – or the pleasure – does not exist. You must accept it – accept what you feel and what you sense others feeling. You must try to understand it. And you _must_ learn to control it.”

She sniffles loudly, one giant tear breaking away and rolling down her cheek. Her gaze drops to her lap, a contemplative look rolling over her face as she slowly tugs the corner of her lip in between her teeth to tentatively gnaw. “What,” she begins after a moment, voice sounding suddenly small, even nervous. “What would happen if I don’t? Can’t?”

The Professor’s eyes widen as he leans back in his seat and releases a thoughtful sort of sigh. “When Alex first came to us, we had to build him a suit. Did he tell you about this?” he asks, cocking a curious brow.

She nods. “To contain his power. Because he couldn’t control it. And he might accidentally hurt people.”

“That’s right,” he replies, offering a satisfied nod of his own. “It took many years and much training for him to learn how to control his powers. And even then…” His gaze falters, bright eyes subtly dulling as they veer off towards nothing. A picture forming in his mind of Alex Summers, face set and stoic, body swiftly peeling apart as spiraling plasma spins about him. “Well,” he huffs out, blinking the image away before turning back to the girl across from him. “Sometimes a moment is all it takes. A mere moment of… hesitancy or self-doubt. A moment of anguish. A moment of passion. A moment of… letting go. Even just a single moment of relinquishing control can prove disastrous. If your powers are great enough.”

“And my powers are… great enough?” she asks, hesitancy leadening her tone.

A sad smile tugs at his lips. “Yes, my dear. Your powers are _great_. And they can help you to do _great_ things… if you’ll let them. But they can also do so very much harm. To others and to _you_.”

“I don’t want to hurt anybody,” she ekes out, barely a whisper.

The Professor shakes his head. “Of course not, my dear. And that is precisely why you must learn control.”

She looks up at him, green eyes glassy and oddly… knowing. Gazing at him as though she somehow understands the word entire, despite being so young, so small that her feet flop listlessly about, legs too short to even touch the ground as she sits on the sofa before him. “Jean told me… she said, a while back… she said that I might… explode one day… and I’ll _burn_. So bright…”

“Yes,” he says with a nod and a rather unreadable expression. “Yes.”

“Like a star,” she tacks on, replaying the conversation in her mind, seeing clearly Jean’s deep red hair shining in the moonlight as the two of them lay hand in hand beneath a blanket of stars.

Again, he nods, his lips quirking into a genuine grin. “For centuries, man has used the stars to chart his way. They serve as beacons to guide the lost home. Create pictures and symbols that build stories from which children are taught powerful lessons. Many even believe that they are the key to seeing into both our future and our past. There are far worse things to be compared to than a star.”

“But… a dead star?” she asks, cocking a curious brow. “A supernova?”

He glances over at her with a glint in his eye, smile growing wider. “To our eyes it’s only brighter… an even greater and more powerful beacon.” He leans forward then and takes her small hands in his. “Your light can lead the way for others, Anna. But… how easy it can be to lead people astray…” He releases his grip and gently pats her hands before settling back into his chair.

“Maybe I don’t want to lead people,” she tells him, her voice small but somehow certain. “Maybe I just want to… to be left alone.”

He gazes at her with such affection that she feels a knot quickly form in her stomach. It’s rare that she can get a glimpse of what the Professor feels, his energies so much better controlled and tightly held to than anyone else. But through his intense stare alone she’s able to glean a sense of apprehension, of sadness. Of fear.

“I do wish I could tell you that the pain you feel right now will fade away entirely, and that you’ll never have to feel anything this terrible again,” he says to her, his smooth voice cutting through the suddenly thick air in the room. “But I cannot say that, my dear. I cannot tell you that you will never again _hurt_. This world is full of hurt. Of joy and love and light as well, of course. But…” His voice fades off, the bright blue of his eyes graying like storm clouds coalescing over the horizon. “Someday, something far more painful may occur. Something that you may think you’ll never be able to recover from. And if you don’t learn now how to take your own energies in hand, if you let your emotions control you instead of the other way around… then, well, you may be right.”

Anna’s head bows, her stare once again directed solemnly at her lap. “Well,” she breathes out, a put-on lilt to her voice that in no way covers the sadness as intended. “At least then… if I’m gone… at least then I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Or… I just wouldn’t hurt…”

An utterly uncharacteristic – almost sardonic sounding – snort shoots out of the Professor, the odd sound pulling her attention immediately back to the man in front of her. “Even a dead star can shine as a beacon for others to follow for a millennium or more, my dear,” he tells her, his cadence light and airy. “Do not think that your light – for better or for worse – will burn out just because _you_ find yourself unable to see it.”


	27. Before and After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this is a long one. And there are some... mature themes. But I do hope you enjoy!

_New York, after:_

“Are you two _still_ reading?” Tessa asks with an incredulous air. She steps into the living room, small smirk riding over the lip of her once-again-full coffee mug, and makes her way over to the pair sprawled on the floor.

Steve looks up, colorful paperback laying open atop one thigh, Ava laying draped over the other. “Berenstain Bears,” he says simply, as though that should explain why they’d been barreling through their ever-growing library all morning.

“Hm,” she hums out, almost suspiciously, corner of her mouth rising into an amused grin as she watches the nearly two year old spin and pull herself fully into his lap. “Ever heard of the Mandela Effect?”

His brow crinkles. “No.”

She merely nods. “I guess it’s sort of moot for you anyway. Since you didn’t grow up with those books.”

The slight furrow of his forehead turns into a confused grimace as he glances back down at the little girl in his lap. “Sometimes I don’t understand your mama at all,” he tells her, carefully prying her fingers back as she works to turn the page on the book, crumpling it in the process.

Tessa takes another pull of coffee and points out, “I’m pretty sure they made all of those books into a TV show. You can probably find them on YouTube or something… just let the TV read to her.”

He shoots her a rather chiding look. “Did you really just say that?’”

“Just because it’s harder, doesn’t make it better.”

He can see that she’s teasing, doesn’t mean a word of it. He damn well knows Tessa – the scientist whose shelves are fully furnished with multiple editions of books he’s never heard of and would likely be incapable of understanding – well enough to know that she doesn’t believe for a moment that television is a suitable substitution for reading to your child. But, still… “You’re making me question your mothering instincts again.”

She groans dramatically. “Shut up,” slithering from her lips amid a small smirk. “I make one crack about filling a sippy cup with wine…”

“You also offered her coffee the other morning,” he chimes in with a teasing brow raised high.

“First of all, obviously it was a joke and I would never give my baby coffee. And B, if you think for a second that I wasn’t sneaking caffeine throughout my entire pregnancy and getting her used to that sweet, sweet nectar of life, you got another think coming.”

He huffs out a laugh, head shaking aimlessly. “Not helping your case, mama.” She offers little more than an annoyed snort in response and takes another sip from her steaming mug. “Speaking of,” he intones playfully, cocking a brow. “How many cups is that?”

Her eyes narrow. “How many have you _seen_?”

He shifts a bit, his back pressed awkwardly into the couch, right leg losing circulation from the toddler atop it. He winces as she digs her knee into his quad, bouncing and hammering her palms into the open book. “Two,” he responds suspiciously, lifting and maneuvering Ava around without dropping the almost accusing – though admittedly, entertained – stare. “Which means that’s probably four.”

She shrugs blithely, her eyes ticking down to the desperately squirming, agitatedly babbling little girl. “Looks like you’re starting to piss her off,” she says with a lilt. “But I guess you do have that effect on women.”

“Very funny,” he snipes, twisting Ava around in his lap and positioning the open book in front of her in preparation to continue. “I can hear your heart beating from here.”

“Liar,” she bemoans. “My heart is beating at a perfectly normal, _moderately_ caffeinated decibel.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Like you would know.”

Her eyes narrow bitterly. “You super soldiers think you’re so damn special.”

Ava twists in his lap, giving up on slapping the book to get his attention and instead shoving a chubby hand in his face as she stutters out a string of words – _bear, bear, now_. “Language,” he mutters – a thick warning directed at Tessa – before he captures the tiny fingers between his lips with a playful growl, eliciting a shrill peal of laughter from the kid in his lap.

“She’s heard a hell of a lot worse than _damn_ ,” she points out, beaming smile just barely hidden by her mug as she takes another sip while watching the two on the floor. “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair of me to hide from her who her mother really is. A fucking foul-mouthed – ”

“Tessa!”

She barks out a laugh. “Like you’re so innocent.”

He expertly bobs around Ava’s pawing, voice almost getting drowned out by her escalating squeals – _Bears! Bears!_ – as he replies, “Pretty sure I’ve never said _that_ around her.”

_Bear! Now!_

“Pretty sure I’m not the one who taught her to say, _son of a bitch_.”

_Bear… papa… now!_

“She _barely_ said it. And I never would’ve shouted it out had you not burned me with that pan.”

_Now, now, now…_

“I told you to stand back,” she says with a shrug. “Besides, you healed in like thirty seconds.”

_Papa!_

“Still hurt,” he declares, wrapping a strong arm around Ava’s tiny torso and tugging her back down to a seated position on his lap. “Alright,” he mutters softly into her hair. “Alright. Let’s get back to the bears.”

Tessa’s brows tug together as watches the two settle, a swift realization hitting her, a suspicious lilt to her voice as she asks, “Did she… did she just call you _papa_?”

He’s already back into the book, a sentence or two in, when he hears her, so it takes him a moment to answer, finishing up and turning the page before glancing up at her muddled face. There’s a hesitancy when he responds, as though he doesn’t quite want to utter the words, his eyes dropping – almost guiltily – to avoid her curious gaze. “Papa Bear,” he mutters blankly. He gives a halfhearted shrug just as Ava slaps a hand delightedly down onto the colorful characters on the page before turning and beaming up at Steve. “Just a… character in the stories.”

She nods slowly, eyes assessing – not just watching, but _studying_ – Ava’s reaction to his reading. Her _interaction_ with Steve. _Papa_.

For a long, quiet moment, she stands, looming over the sweet scene that to anyone else would appear like a lazy morning of father-daughter bonding. There’s an inkling of pain rising in the back of her mind as she silently observes – Steve’s strong arm wrapped loosely around the girl’s middle, holding her in place as she bounces excitedly in his lap; Ava’s smile, wide and real and true, every time her eyes bounce from the book to the grinning man over her shoulder. But there’s also a warm pooling of _comfort_ that begins to collect in her gut. At first she thinks it might be coming from them, this smooth and placid energy. But it takes just a breath of a moment for her to realize that it’s actually blossoming and spreading from within.

She finally shakes her head, shakes free all of the comforting – and confusing – thoughts, and clears her throat. “Well, let me know when you two are done. I told Nat that we’d be there by noon.”

He flips another page, lets Ava run her fingers over the brightly colored illustrations as she investigates this next scene. “Ah, yeah,” he breathes out easily. “Girls’ day.” Then, quirking his eyes up at her, forcing his voice a bit low, he says, “Try to get her outta the compound, will ya? She’s too cooped up there. It’s not good for her.”

“Yeah,” she sighs out. “I know. I want to get caught up on where things are with… everyone. But after that, I was going make her go to the park with us. It’s usually pretty empty,” _like most places_ , she almost tacks on. “We’ll have our pick of swings.”

He leans back a bit into the couch behind him, arm still snug around Ava’s middle as he otherwise directs all of his attention up at Tessa. “Still no words on Barton?” She shakes her head _no_ , face pinching into a tight grimace. “And nothing on any of the X-Men? Still?”

She shrugs. “They’ve always been good at hiding. Got a hell of a lot better at it after… after what happened in Canada. You know that.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, absently hugging the baby closer to his chest. “Guess it just seems like… Things are different now, you know?”

She lets out a small hum, gaze drifting down to focus on her young daughter – her young _mutant_ daughter. “Anti-mutant legislation is still on the books. Things might be different. But that doesn’t mean they’re… safe. For us.”

He gives a small nod and drops his lips down to Ava’s head, laying a quick kiss in her curls before shifting back into his storytelling voice and finishing up their book.

000

The compound is quiet these days. No. That’s an understatement of epic proportions. The compound is… dead. Little more than ghostly images of Vision seeping through the walls on his way into Wanda’s room. Or the barely there tinkle of Sam’s laughter reverberating down the halls. The sounds of a hectic kitchen and common room, full of _family_ on a Sunday afternoon or an evening deemed movie night, are little more than haunting echoes of those who no longer exist.

And of the others, those who _do_ still live, well… Bruce had disappeared long ago, burying himself in a lab somewhere, only checking in periodically, just to make sure everyone is still alive. Rhodey comes and goes. And the others too… the _new_ crew. An oddly affectless blue _woman_ whose cold demeanor far outrivals the Widow’s. Okoye, whom Nat now counts as a friend, but only ever speaks to via the virtual coms. Carol… whatever the hell she is. And… a talking racoon.

Most days, it’s quiet at the compound. Still. Dead. It makes it easy for one day to slip into the next, for all of the silent, barren, lifeless moments to flow together, stretching into one endless _after_. That’s how Natasha chooses to think of it, this new world. This is all simply _after_. And _before_ is nothing more than a heap of faded memories, hopes and dreams that had fluttered away on the wind just as easily as all of the ashes of her friends. Her family.

In the _after_ there is only silence, and the ghosts that haunt this compound.

But _hope_ , there’s still a hint of that.

They may yet find Clint and bring him home. Though, really, after all he’s lost, she’s not sure he’ll even still be the Barton she knew at all. And they might find some of Tessa’s family, a thing that would bring her comfort – and could help the world build some new heroes for the fights that this _after_ is sure to bring. And they might still… _help_. They may be able to help what’s left of the world… the universe. And one day – even after all these years and all of the failures that have piled one on top of another – she might be able to finally white out all of that red still burning bright in her ledger.

And there’s one other thing, one thing that sits in the back of her mind – as well as in numerous frames around every inch of the compound she inhabits – and helps her to see that there may still be a future worth something. Her little Ava Grace.

“There’s my sweet girl!” she coos, dropping to her knees as the toddler haphazardly races for her. She wraps her into a tight embrace and swings her up into her arms, plopping her onto her hip where she intends to keep her for as long as the precious little curly haired monster will allow. “How’s my _kiska_ , huh?”

“Oh, speaking of _kiska_ s,” Tessa hums out, wide eyes stretching across the common room. “Where are my little kitties? Eddie!” she calls out sweetly, easily sidestepping her friend and daughter in search of the cats that now inhabit this otherwise empty abode with Natasha. “Phoebe?!”

Nat gives Ava a little bounce in her arms, beaming as the girl bleats out a shrill giggle, and tosses over her shoulder, “Last I saw, they were both laying out in the sun in the atrium.”

“Hm,” she mutters, disappointment clear on her face as she turns and drops the diaper bag to the sofa. “Guess I’ll hunt them down later.”

“What have you been feeding her?” Natasha turns to ask, a small laugh tumbling out amid the words. “She’s huge!”

Tessa gives her a disappointed glare – “She’s not _huge_. You’re going to give her a complex.” – and flops heavily down onto the leather couch herself. “And lately, it’s been mostly fish sticks.”

“She is her mother’s child,” she jokes lightly before lowering herself to the floor in an easy, fluid motion. She sits amid a stretch of toys – the same ones that have been sitting out, covering the floor in this corner of the common room since their last visit nearly three weeks ago – and delicately folds her legs up beneath her, holding Ava in her lap as she reaches out and sweeps a load of blocks near for her to play with.

“So,” Tessa intones, dragging the word out endlessly. Her eyes ping around the room, no doubt taking in the dust and clutter and general _feel_ of the place… equal parts lived in and decaying. “You know I’m not one for… picking up. Or cleaning of any kind. But…”

“But?” she asks, raising an almost threatening brow.

She shrugs. “Steve hired us a maid,” she says absently. “She’s this woman from one of his support groups… needed work. And, man, I think I might be in love with her.” She leans back into the sofa, the warm familiarity of the soft leather at her back sending a trickling sense of calm throughout her. “I forgot what color the tile in the bathroom was. I swear, she must’ve gotten into the grout with a toothbrush.”

The redhead laughs despite herself, easily positions Ava in her lap and reaches out to help her pile blocks high. “And you want me to hire her?”

“She’d probably be grateful for it. And you wouldn’t be breathing in all this dust.”

“Is that the doctor telling me to look out for my respiratory health, or the overbearing friend trying to keep me from seeming… depressed.”

Her head pops suddenly up and off the cushion, a fiery glare shooting from her bright green eyes. “I am _not_ overbearing.”

A crooked grin blooms on Natasha’s face. “I just assumed you were channeling Steve.”

She waves a dismissive hand through the air – “Just shoot me if that starts happening.” – and pulls herself upright. “Anything new around here?” she asks with a forced levity. “Or, you know, in the universe at large?”

She issues a blithe shrug, face falling, unintentionally forming a frown. “Carol’s still bouncing from planet to planet, trying to… I don’t know, help clean things up?”

Tessa rolls her eyes dramatically. “She thinks she’s _so_ cool just because she can travel intergalactically.”

A swift snort of laughter falls out of Nat’s mouth. “Jealous?”

“An alien god once told me that I’m powerful enough to lay waste to the entire universe,” she mutters with a smirk. “I’m holding onto that.”

Another laugh. “Honestly, I’d _love_ to see you and Carol throw down. Might have devastating consequences for all remaining life… but I bet it’d be hell’a entertaining.”

She too gives a little chortle. Then, in a low, almost nervous tone, “Speaking of that alien god…”

Nat merely shakes her head. “Still holed up across the ocean… refusing calls…”

She nods, a languid and intentional movement. “Anything on any of the X-Men? The Brotherhood?”

Ava leans forward and swipes at the tall tower of blocks they had been building, squealing with glee when they all tumble to the floor in a widespread heap. Natasha smiles crookedly and reaches out to gather them near, beginning the build yet again. “Most of the focus has been off world. Rhodey’s still on the lookout. Okoye too, not that we think any of them moved over to her side of the world. When Steve and I…” her voice drifts off, choking on the other names, aching to say, _and Sam and Wanda_ , but swallowing down the urge. “When we were looking for them… _before_ …” She shakes her head lazily. “Seemed like the network Magneto built – the safehouses and communes – were mostly in North America and Europe.” She glances up at Tessa. “We did finally get confirmation that Dr. MacTaggert was lost in the Snap. Rhodes got into the Mutant Research Facility last month and… well, it’s pretty much all gone.”

Tessa nods her head, a placid, unreadable expression washing over her face as she takes that in. “I still think the Professor is out there somewhere,” she says after a long, silent moment, her voice low and subdued, gaze ticking off towards nothing. “It’s hard, you know? I… I can’t always tell anymore if what I feel is _living_ energy or…”

“But you think you feel him?”

She looks up slowly, a sad, exhausted sheen to her eyes, and she nods.

“Well, Rhodes is still on the lookout,” she hums, smiling wide as Ava knocks down another tower.

“But he’s still mostly following Clint’s trail?”

“Trying to,” she mutters with a shrug.

“And?”

She looks up at her, locks onto her blank stare – no more expectant looks these days, not after so many disappointments, so long without change – and she forces out another shrug.

“I hate this,” Tessa declares thickly, toeing off her shoes and folding her legs up beneath her on the couch. “It’s been almost three years. Where _is_ he?”

Another shrug. Another seemingly nonchalant expression… never mind the fact that – she _knows_ – Tessa can see right through it. “He’s still hurting.”

Her head whips back around, leveling her friend with a heated stare. “We’re _all_ still hurting,” she bites out.

“I know. But…” She drops her eyes and shakes her head slowly back and forth. “Those kids…”

A breath catches in Tessa’s chest, a low groan pulling as she blinks her eyes shut – just long enough to stave off the sudden of wave _pain_ that comes with even just the thought of losing _her_ kid – and opens them again, a far more tender air to her gaze as she meets Natasha’s waiting eyes. She shakes her head. And Nat nods hers. A silent agreement between the both of them to avoid this path.

“I just…” she starts, breathing out a sigh. “I miss him.”

“Yeah,” Natasha agrees, ducking her head and burying her nose briefly in Ava’s hair, sucking in the sweet smell of her lavender baby shampoo. “Me too.”

“I’m so tired of being so alone,” she huffs out, the declaration seeming more pouty than despondent. It’s a byproduct of time, or so it seems. Grief slowly moving from being utterly unbearable to a painful, constant distraction to – now, nearly three years in – a bitter annoyance.

Nat props her chin atop Ava’s head and glances at her glowering friend. “You’re not alone,” she reminds her with a brow raised high.

Tessa merely rolls her eyes, offering no words in response.

“You know,” she begins to muse, sly quirk to her lips. “Back in the day… back before Barnes showed up… Barton and I had an ongoing bet about when you and _Captain America_ would finally hook up.”

“Yeah, I know,” she utters with a disinterested air. “Clint told me he’d give me two hundred bucks to seduce Steve on New Years once.” She glances over at the woman across from her, eyes narrowed almost threateningly. “How much was on the table?”

“Then? ‘Bout five grand,” she says with a shrug.

Tessa scoffs loudly. “And he was only willing to give me two hundred,” she laments thickly. “Cheap bastard.”

“You know it’d be okay, though,” she says after a long moment of heady silence, her attention seemingly wholly on helping Ava stack blocks high. “Now, I mean.” Tessa looks at her with an almost weary expression. “No one doubts you loved Barnes. _Love_ him. No one would ever think you didn’t still… even if you and Steve – ”

“He might,” she interrupts swiftly. “He’s James’ best friend,” she points out, as though it weren’t common knowledge. “What would you think if your best friend’s widow started fucking someone else?”

Her eyes widen. “Three years after his death? I’d think it was about damn time.”

She lets out the smallest, breathy chuckle, but shakes her head just the same, trains her eyes on the little girl in Natasha’s lap. “I still miss him _everyday_.”

“I know,” she agrees easily.

“And so does Steve.”

She nods again. “I know.”

“It wouldn’t be… it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Tessa,” she hums out, a hint of reprimand to her voice. “You and Steve have always had a connection. I’m not saying it was bound to become… romantic. But it’s always been there. There has always been _love_ there.”

Her head pivots slowly to-and-fro. “But not the same…”

“No,” she goes on, raising a knowing brow. “It’s not the same as what you had with James. But it’s still _love_. And…” She lets out a long, deep sigh. “Look, I don’t want to push you to do anything that you don’t want to do. That’s not what this is about. Clint and I called off our bet the day you and Barnes got married, so I no longer have a dog in this fight.”

Her head snaps up, eyes blowing wide as she stares the redhead down. “You didn’t call it off until then? We’d been living together for like two years by the time we got married.”

“Wanted to wait until things were official,” she says with a blasé tone. “There was a lot of money on the line.” Tessa gives her a disappointed stare. She responds with a lame roll of her eyes. “The _point_ is that, I’m only bringing this up because I know that it’s on your mind. And it sure as hell is on Steve’s.”

Her legs kick out from under her, body folding forward, elbows dropping to her knees as she leans in. “He told you that?” she asks, brows knitting nervously together.

Natasha pulls herself upright, straightening her back, setting her shoulders stiffly. “He told me that you two kissed. That things got… heated.”

Again, her eyes blow wide, jaw dropping. “He told you that?”

She lets loose a small snicker. “C’mon, Tess. It’s not like he has a lot of friends left to talk to right now. Other than you. And he said that you refuse to discuss it.”

Her shoulders drop, entire body seeming to deflate as a thick sense of shame washes over her. “I don’t want to _talk_ about it,” she mumbles. “I don’t see why we have to.”

“Maybe you don’t.” Tessa looks back up at her with a questioning stare. “You could just give in and jump each other’s bones and never say a word about any of it,” she suggests with a crooked grin. Then, lips tightening into a thin, stern line, she declares, “But you _cannot_ ignore it. _That_ isn’t fair. To either of you.”

She ducks her head – again, shame coiling around her… shame and embarrassment both. “When… when did he tell you?” she starts, voice slow and hesitant.

“Last time he came by, I guess… maybe a few weeks ago.”

A bright blush begins to bloom across her cheeks, reaching over to the very tips of her ears. “Oh,” she mutters simply.

Another crash of blocks. Another delighted squeal. Natasha reaches out to absently gather the toys near once again and she cocks a curious – suspicious – glance at her friend. “Oh? What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” she says without looking up, the rosy flush now spreading down her neck.

“Bullshit,” she mutters, reaching up to cover the baby’s ears as she says it. “Tell me.”

Tessa lets out a long, deep huff of a breath and leans further forward on her elbows, dropping her head into her hands and squeezing her eyes tightly shut for a long, steeling moment before looking back up at the patiently waiting redhead. “Yeah… a few weeks ago, we kissed. Really… yeah. But it’s also happened before,” she says finally, the words rushing out of her in an unimpeded stream. “A few times. Just kissing. Nothing more. Nothing ever more. And, Nat… I just… I feel _horrible_ about it. Every. Single. Time.”

Her brow twists in confusion. “Wait a minute. Before _when_?”

She shakes her head lazily. “Just before Ava’s birthday. That was the first time. It was…” She shrugs. “I don’t know… it sounds so… _lame_. But I just… I was… _cold_. And he was so damn warm. And I just…”

Nat slowly lifts the baby from her lap, setting her onto the floor atop a blanket pulled from nearby. And she crawls across to Tessa’s side, easily pulls herself up onto the couch beside her, before reaching out a hand to rest upon her knee.

“Sometimes…” she begins again, speaking around the swiftly forming lump in her throat. “Sometimes we’ll sleep in the same bed.” She shrugs, gaze hitting the floor, adamantly refusing to meet Natasha’s. “Since then… for a few months now, I guess.”

“For almost a year,” she corrects, taking in the bewildered look that Tessa gives her when she finally does crane her neck to meet her gaze. “You said it was before Ava’s birthday? She’s got another one coming up next month.”

Yes. Yes it had been almost a year then. Almost a year since they first kissed, tightly clinging to each other in the silent kitchen that night, the baby asleep just down the hall. _James’_ baby asleep just down the hall.

And it was merely weeks later that she invited him into her bed. Not like _that_. No. It was to soothe her to sleep when nothing else would work. To hold her and calm her and… offer just a bit of warmth to melt the ice that had collected around her heart, her soul. She had been _cold_ , so terribly cold. And he had agreed, seemingly without reservation, to curl up beside her, him laying atop the comforter as she curled beneath the sheets and extra covers, longing to once more be filled with the warmth that oozed from his chest that night in the kitchen.

They had slept like that most nights throughout the winter. And into the spring. Only splitting and sleeping separately – though tossing and turning would be a more apt description of what occurred when they were alone – once the record-breaking heat of summer seeped in.

Just last month – as the crinkle of dried leaves blew past her open bedroom window, the chill of fall finally setting in, so late in coming it seemed – he lingered casually in her doorway, barefoot in sweats, as she read curled up in bed. “Can I come in?” he’d asked, nothing but confidence to his tone.

She’d nodded and scooted over a bit, making room for him to sit, to tell her whatever it was that was on his mind. But he’d said nothing in that moment, instead sidling down the bed – still atop the comforter – to lie down beside her. Without any hesitation, she shoved a bookmark into her book, tossed it onto the nightstand, and flipped off the light, before curling easily around his strong back.

He had told her after – the next morning, when the sun was still hanging low in the sky, the world only barely waking around them – that he felt the desperate pull… to be near her, to hold her, to curl around her in the middle of the night and feel _her_ warmth seep through _him_. He’d told her of the daily guilt that weighed him down. And the almost palpable desire. He’d told her that he hated himself more and more with each passing day. But that his love for _her_ only seemed to grow.

And she kissed him. Again. For the fourth or fifth or twentieth time, she couldn’t be sure, each and every short and tender kiss – each and every hungry, fervid one – melting back into the closeted space of her mind, the place where deeply buried memories go… delights and despairs that are better left denied.

But she had kissed him then, pulling him near, tugging down the covers that separated their bodies and pressing herself into him. She had kissed him and cradled him and ran her fingers through his golden hair, let out a small, tight moan when he reached to the back of her skull and wound his fingers up in her curls. She had kissed him and breathed into him a tender reassurance, a comfort and encouragement, a promise that she had no real intention of ever keeping.

But, no, she had not ever _talked_ to him about it, hadn’t – and wouldn’t – utter a single word. Because, really, there were no words in any language that cover all that needed to be said.

“I can’t…” Tessa begins, unsure quite where to go. Her head drops again, down into her open palms. “I can’t… let go.”

“Of James?” Nat asks softly.

She shakes her head desperately back and forth, flinging aside memories of a warm bed and smooth skin beneath her fingertips, the steadily rising sun peaking in between the curtains, low, soft breaths of her baby on the monitor behind her. “Of _everything_. Of James. And of our life together. And of the way Steve fit into our life back then. And of the fact that Ava is his baby. But… but… _Steve_ is…” she breaks off suddenly, pinching her lips tightly together. Pained, weary eyes glance up at Natasha, lock onto her curious and patient stare. “Steve is her _dad_ ,” she says, laying out the truth that they all know, but never say. Then, barely a breath, “papa.”

Natasha nods, slowly, leisurely, as she plans her words out, thinks about how best to explain what she’s felt for years now. “There was a _before_ ,” she states simply. “And it wasn’t always great. You _know_ that. But there was happiness there. And love. And, Tessa, you never should let that go… what you had then, you will _always_ have that. But… we’re in the _after_ now. And here… well, you can either give in and move on and let yourself find… something… some sort of happiness. With your best friend. With your daughter’s _father_? Or…” She raises a single brow, wiggles it teasingly as a small smirk rolls over her face. “You can be like me and just… stay stuck… here.” A long, languid sigh spills from her lips. “If I were you, I’d try to be anyone but me.”

000

When Tessa returns that evening, the sun setting and casting a bright orange glow over the otherwise gray city, it’s without Ava in tow.

“Oh, okay,” Steve mutters with a surprised intonation when she explains that she left her with Natasha for the night. “Did you plan that?” he asks, brows scrunched as he finishes up washing the last dish – _finally_ deciding, minutes before her return, to clean up the remnants from their pancake breakfast this morning – and turns to face her. “I mean, did you pack enough clothes and diapers? Does she have Busy Bunny?”

Busy Bunny, that ugly gray rabbit… one ear half chewed off, fake fur and internal fluff rigid and clumped from too many washings. Ava can’t sleep without it. She can barely function if the stuffed animal’s good ear isn’t tightly clenched in her fist. Did she bring Busy Bunny with them on the day-long trip out of the city? “Of course,” she replies with a huff, eyes rolling dramatically back. “I’m not an idiot.”

Steve nods, confusion and – is it uncertainty? – still pulling awkwardly at his features. “Okay. But… you didn’t mention anything about leaving her there…”

She ducks her head, folds her arms tightly across her chest as she leans a hip into the counter next to her. “Yeah… no.” A pair of bright green eyes ping up to lock onto his, her stare intense, a bit frantic. “I didn’t… I wasn’t…” She clears her throat and breathes out a clumsy, airy chuckle. “It was… last minute.”

“Okay,” he repeats, tone soft and low, forehead still deeply furrowed. He takes a single step closer to her, tossing aside the dish towel as he too leans a hip casually into the counter, just inches from hers. She looks down to see his hand, his strong, lithe fingers, splayed across the granite countertop, slowly sliding towards her. She watches as it creeps closer, stilling beside her, his thumb slowly rising up and swiping delicately – a barely there touch – along the waistband of her jeans. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asks, the tenor of his voice causing her core to clench.

She lets out a long, exhausted-sounding sigh, punctuates the end with another short, awkward laugh. Her head shakes. Her arms tighten across her chest. And when she returns her gaze to meet his, those beautiful, bright green eyes look to be coated in a glistening sheen of despair.

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Nothing he hasn’t experienced a hundred times already – her mood shifting suddenly into a confused mishmash of _okay-but-not-okay_. Tears spilling down her cheeks, even as she smiles at him, laughs with him. Lays in bed and softly kisses him. It’s nothing new, and it no longer breaks his heart, not like it used to. It simply is what it is.

“Steve,” she breathes out into the small space between them. Her eyes blink rapidly for a beat of a moment, sending a small cascade of tears from her eyes, clearing them of that murky veil so that she might see him clearly. A quick huff – almost annoyed, irritated at her own intrusive emotions – and another sigh, and her arms loosen a bit around her, shoulders dropping just slightly. “Steve,” she repeats, tone deep and sincere as she looks up at him. “I know… it isn’t fair. None of this is.”

His face is stern and expressionless, giving away nothing. He’s not entirely sure what she’s talking about right now, but even so, he knows _exactly_ what she means. No words fall from his lips, no confused inquiries nor pleas for explanation. He simply… remains. Tall and still and strong before her.

Her eyes tick away for a brief moment, a quick sniffle punctuating the now heady silence. “I just,” she begins again, her hip pulling away from the counter and weight beginning to shift awkwardly from one foot to the other. Her gaze returns to him and she states simply, “You knew him better than anyone.” The words that follow all tumble out in a swift and haphazard cascade. “So just tell me. Will you tell me? Because I really need to know. I just need to know. What would he want me to do? What?”

“Tess,” he breathes out finally. His head begins to shake in something akin to disappointment. “I might’ve known him best when we were kids… when we were at war. But since he came back… it’s always been you. No one knew him better than _you_.” He too shifts away from the counter and folds his arms across his chest, creating a profile to mirror hers. His gaze is tender but also somehow stern. Perceptive. Compelling. “And I’m pretty sure you know what he’d want. I’m pretty sure he told you.”

Had he? Had he told her what he’d want her to do? In a time like this? A time… without him?

_I just want what’s best for you_ , she recalls him saying once, amid an argument on the side of the road.

_I want you to live your life and be happy, even if I’m not there to see it_ , she hears him telling her, the words only barely distracting her from the texture of the scar on his chest, still puckered – still _there_ – beneath her hand, serving as the most awful reminder of his vulnerability.

She says nothing to Steve – in the here and now, in the _after_ – merely standing utterly still as Bucky’s voice rings through her ears, carrying the weight of time.

It’s a moment more, a moment of being trapped between two worlds, clinging equally to the deep tenor of her husband’s voice and the craved warmth radiating off of the man before her. It’s just a single, breathless moment before the echo in her mind is drowned out entirely.

“Honestly, Tess,” he says, interrupting her spinning thoughts. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What he wanted. What you wanted back then. None of it matters.” He shifts awkwardly, rocking back on his heels as his arms curl even tighter around him. “What do you want? Now. _You_.”

She hesitates, her mouth bobbing slowly for a long beat. “I don’t know. I… I want to stop crying. I want to be happy. Or… close to it. I feel like… like I’m always going to be sad. Like there’s always going to be this part of me that’s… broken. But I… I want that piece to be, I don’t know… smaller.”

He nods. “Okay. That’s a start.”

“A start?”

He steps closer, the heat from his body spilling into her. “What do you want, Tess?”

“I want Ava to want to be around me,” she mutters, voice small. “I want to teach her and guide her and, I don’t know, be _good…_ set a good example for her. I… I want to… God, it sounds so stupid…” She snuffles a bit, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I want to be her… her guiding light. Her _star_. Fuck,” she huffs out with an evasive shrug.

Steve just laughs – a small but sincere guffaw – as he reaches out and lays a palm on her wrist, gently pries apart her still-crossed arms. “You already _are_ ,” he says with a grin, his hand sliding down to grip hers, giving a tight squeeze. “You’re everything to her.”

She lets out a sardonic snort – “No, I’m not.” – and gazes up at him with a tender look. “ _We_ are.” Her free hand slowly rises to his cheek, palm cupping his smooth, always clean-shaven jawline. Her fingers trail up, tips gliding into his tightly cropped hair. “We’re her family. And I want that for her. I want her to have a family that… that loves her and is always there for her. She needs that.”

He gives a slight nod, his eyes lazily blinking shut as he naturally bends into her touch and presses a chaste kiss to the heel of her hand. Then he leans away, gently tugging her hand down and wrapping it – just like the other – into his large, tight embrace. “What do you want for _you_?” he asks, voice low and slow. “What do _you_ need?”

She swallows thickly, her own eyes turning dark with desire, an undeniable _heat_ gathering in her core, as she locks onto his patient, oddly _knowing_ gaze. “I need,” she begins, stilling just long enough for her tongue to flick out and swiftly wet her lips. “I need to be… touched. I miss… I miss being touched. And held. And…” She twists both of her hands inside of his much larger ones, grasps tightly to his fingers and bears down as if to drive home the absolute _truth_ of what she’s about to say. “I miss being taken apart and filled up and _fucked_.”

His expression never changes, never shifts in the least, remaining set and placid. But his eyes – much like hers – darken, the bright baby blue deepening and graying before nearly disappearing altogether as his pupils widen the closer he gets. He’s a breath away, forehead nearly resting atop hers when he splits his lips apart to utter the question, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Her emphatic nod gets lost in the shuffle as she lunges forward, capturing his lips with her own, clanging teeth and colliding into his chest as her hands immediately release his and move to press into his back. Pawing, clawing, grasping desperately at the thick flannel that covers his shoulder blades. She dives lower and tugs the shirt from his waistband – who tucks in a flannel anyway? – pulling almost violently at it to get to the soft, hot flesh beneath.

He pulls back, releases her already raw, swollen lips, though not before swiping his tongue languidly along the pouty, puffed out bottom one. A quick sweep of his arms and the offending button down is gone, thrown off to the side… somewhere. His hands are fast – faster than her own brain, it seems – as they reach out and tug the sweater off over her head before she even registers that it’s her turn to shed clothing.

Again, they kiss, the taste of each of them now being achingly familiar, though still smacking of forbidden. But neither can get enough. In the months that have passed since that night – here in this same quiet kitchen – when they first toed that distinct but invisible line, when they first crossed it, there have been so many _tastes_. And now here they are, appetites whetted, bodies aching and hungry, mouths ready to devour.

Tessa lays a small nip at the corner of his mouth before pulling away, just a bit, just enough to catch a glimpse of his flushed face. “What do _you_ want, Steve?” she asks him then, voice barely even a whisper, yet loud enough to echo throughout his entire being.

He stills in her grasp, the muscles in his strong back tightening beneath her fingertips. She opens her senses up and feels a rush of pure, thick, _dangerous_ desire ooze out of him. It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt from this man before. In all the years they’ve known each other, loved each other, taken care of each other, she’s not once sensed this kind of longing spill from him. This kind of _need_. This kind of hunger.

There are no words that he can offer in response to her question, none ever formulate in his mind. But he knows the answer all the same, knows exactly what he wants, has known for _months_ now. He’s just been waiting for her to catch up.

The stillness breaks, shatters like a million tiny shards of ice splitting apart around them, as he swiftly grabs her by the hips and spins her around, giving a small shove forward before bending her over the kitchen table. The bowl of fruit at the center of the table jostles and spills with the impact of the two of them colliding forward. A plastic sippy gets knocked across the room as Tessa’s arms fly out to find purchase. She lets out a surprised laugh… then a hitched breath as he leans into her, rock hard beneath his perfectly pressed khakis.

He pulls back suddenly and tugs down her pants, undoing the button and zipper in one quick, deft move and yanking the jeans down her legs. He gives her the moment she needs to step out of them, stands back and watches as she blindly shakes them from around her ankles, never moving from her spot splayed upon the table. Once she’s free of the pants, he leans in again, trails his fingers up the length of her thighs, up to her hips where they sink into her skin, palms spread wide as his thumbs glide beneath the waistband of her panties, pressing small bruises into the tender flesh above her ass before hooking into the thin material and tearing it away.

And there it is. A wide swath of brilliant red, white, and blue. A remnant of his past life, a reminder of who he used to be. A stamp, a sigil, a marker. _His_ shield.

One hand slides from her hip and trails along her pelvis, setting off a rush of trembling goosebumps that pock Tessa’s skin and cause her gasp. Then two fingers slowly slip inside, curling into her, _touching_ – just like she asked – as his other arm wraps around her middle and _holds_ – just like she needs.

He leans over the top of her, nuzzling his nose into the hair at the base of her skull before trailing soft kisses down the length of her spine, feeling her breath shudder in and out of her chest as he goes, lips slowly navigating down to the brightly colored tattoo. He stops there, huffing hot breaths into her skin for a lingering moment before diving forward and kissing, licking, nipping at the shield – _his_ shield – on her ass. Sucking a mark and scraping his teeth along her flesh as he listens to her keen and moan. As he feels her tighten around his fingers.

He _fucks_ her – just like she wants. He fucks her right there on the kitchen table. Hard. Harder than she ever expected sweet, wholesome Captain America to be capable of doing. He fucks her like _he_ needs it. More than she ever could.

And in the final moment – pressed up against the edge of the table, hard, fast thrusts forcing all the air from her lungs – in that final bruising, biting, bursting moment, just as she feels all of the want and need that he’s carried and denied for so long spill out of him and into her… in that moment, she finally manages to let go of the _before_.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I don't know about you guys, but I'm super excited about moving forward with this. I have A LOT of ideas... though, I'm not gonna lie, some of them are pretty dark. Beware... much angst this way lies! But there will also be a ton of sweetness and joy and fun. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to drop a comment. Thanks for reading!


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